Read Online Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) by Leighann Dobbs, Harmony Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leighann Dobbs, Harmony Williams
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were to find the duke’s room, she could shut the door and search to her heart’s content. This floor was eerily silent compared to the bustle of the last two, with no servants in sight at all.
In succession, Phil opened the door to reveal: the dowager’s chambers, what appeared to be an unused bedchamber given the lack of personal effects, a room in slight disarray with a trunk of feminine clothing in the center, and a dark room that smelled earthy. Phil didn’t see much of the last, aside from the fronds of a potted plant nestled next to the door. The moment a snore rent the air, she shut the door with haste. Given the plant, it must be Lord Gideon’s room—and he must still be abed. With her heart in her throat, Phil tiptoed away, praying that she hadn’t disturbed him. When he didn’t yank the door open to glare at her, she let out a sigh of relief.
The next bedchamber down the line must belong to the duke. Squaring her shoulders, Phil ghosted down the hall. She laid her hand on the latch and tentatively opened the door.
No snoring. The rich azure drapes were partially shut, tickled by the breeze drifting through the open window. Daylight trickled in from the gap to dimly light the room. More thick drapes were pulled across the bed, their silver cords hanging loose. No motion betrayed that the room was occupied. Phil slipped into the room, easing the door shut behind her.
Thanks to the breeze through the window, the air didn’t smell stale. She crept along the plush Persian carpet, a rich array of blues and greens and purples, as she moved to the window to let in more light. When the gray light sifting through the clouds penetrated the room, she studied the panorama, trying to guess where a duke would hide a prism the size of a shilling. Unfortunately, the possibilities were myriad.
The duke’s room was neither messy nor devoid of personality, but a curious mix in between. The four-poster bed, the poles carved with the likenesses of dragons, devoured the majority of the space in the room, relegating the massive wardrobe, a chest topped with various books stacked neatly, a blue stuffed armchair, and twin night tables to the perimeter of the room. A spacious marble fireplace, intricately carved in a neoclassical style, faced the bed. The hearth was now cold, though a few logs had been stacked in the grate. Flanking the fireplace were two doorways, one without a door that presumably led into the dressing room, and a second with the door closed. At a guess, Phil imagined it led into unused, adjoining chambers for the future duchess. Over the mantle of the hearth was a breathtaking painting of Grecian shores. The colors popped in contrast to the white-and-blue damask wallpaper.
Where to begin? Phil stripped off her gloves, tossing them on the armchair as she surveyed the room. The duke didn’t keep a writing desk in his bedchamber, though he might have stuffed the prism in one of the drawers of his wardrobe. It was as good a place as any to start.
Despite the cool air, by the time she rummaged through the cravats and gloves in the top drawer, Phil’s spencer clung to the back of her neck. She shucked it, tossing it atop the gloves on the chair. She toed off her ankle-high riding boots, for good measure. For some unfathomable reason, she could always find things faster when in her stocking feet.
She pulled out the second drawer and found herself gifted with neat row upon row of folded smallclothes and socks. She felt along the inside of the drawer for a telltale lump. Empty-handed, she shut the drawer with vigor. It met the frame with a small thump .
Someone stirred on the bed behind her. Her heart skipped a beat. She whirled, pressing her hand to her chest. A gasp escaped her lips, unbidden.
A second later, the bed curtains rustled as a man shot out of bed. Daylight glinted off the metal barrel of a pistol aimed at Phil’s chest. But it wasn’t the gun that held her immobile. The Duke of Tenwick was
In succession, Phil opened the door to reveal: the dowager’s chambers, what appeared to be an unused bedchamber given the lack of personal effects, a room in slight disarray with a trunk of feminine clothing in the center, and a dark room that smelled earthy. Phil didn’t see much of the last, aside from the fronds of a potted plant nestled next to the door. The moment a snore rent the air, she shut the door with haste. Given the plant, it must be Lord Gideon’s room—and he must still be abed. With her heart in her throat, Phil tiptoed away, praying that she hadn’t disturbed him. When he didn’t yank the door open to glare at her, she let out a sigh of relief.
The next bedchamber down the line must belong to the duke. Squaring her shoulders, Phil ghosted down the hall. She laid her hand on the latch and tentatively opened the door.
No snoring. The rich azure drapes were partially shut, tickled by the breeze drifting through the open window. Daylight trickled in from the gap to dimly light the room. More thick drapes were pulled across the bed, their silver cords hanging loose. No motion betrayed that the room was occupied. Phil slipped into the room, easing the door shut behind her.
Thanks to the breeze through the window, the air didn’t smell stale. She crept along the plush Persian carpet, a rich array of blues and greens and purples, as she moved to the window to let in more light. When the gray light sifting through the clouds penetrated the room, she studied the panorama, trying to guess where a duke would hide a prism the size of a shilling. Unfortunately, the possibilities were myriad.
The duke’s room was neither messy nor devoid of personality, but a curious mix in between. The four-poster bed, the poles carved with the likenesses of dragons, devoured the majority of the space in the room, relegating the massive wardrobe, a chest topped with various books stacked neatly, a blue stuffed armchair, and twin night tables to the perimeter of the room. A spacious marble fireplace, intricately carved in a neoclassical style, faced the bed. The hearth was now cold, though a few logs had been stacked in the grate. Flanking the fireplace were two doorways, one without a door that presumably led into the dressing room, and a second with the door closed. At a guess, Phil imagined it led into unused, adjoining chambers for the future duchess. Over the mantle of the hearth was a breathtaking painting of Grecian shores. The colors popped in contrast to the white-and-blue damask wallpaper.
Where to begin? Phil stripped off her gloves, tossing them on the armchair as she surveyed the room. The duke didn’t keep a writing desk in his bedchamber, though he might have stuffed the prism in one of the drawers of his wardrobe. It was as good a place as any to start.
Despite the cool air, by the time she rummaged through the cravats and gloves in the top drawer, Phil’s spencer clung to the back of her neck. She shucked it, tossing it atop the gloves on the chair. She toed off her ankle-high riding boots, for good measure. For some unfathomable reason, she could always find things faster when in her stocking feet.
She pulled out the second drawer and found herself gifted with neat row upon row of folded smallclothes and socks. She felt along the inside of the drawer for a telltale lump. Empty-handed, she shut the drawer with vigor. It met the frame with a small thump .
Someone stirred on the bed behind her. Her heart skipped a beat. She whirled, pressing her hand to her chest. A gasp escaped her lips, unbidden.
A second later, the bed curtains rustled as a man shot out of bed. Daylight glinted off the metal barrel of a pistol aimed at Phil’s chest. But it wasn’t the gun that held her immobile. The Duke of Tenwick was
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