The Tattooed Duke (4 page)

Chapter 7

In Which There Is a Midnight Interlude

T
he hour was late. The sheet of paper before her, blank. Eliza bit her lip, lost in thought. Her first column would be published tomorrow and she awaited it eagerly, like Christmas or her birthday. In the fast-paced world of newspaper publishing, however, she had little time to savor her success before the next column was due.

Thus far she had written
The Tattooed Duke
on the page. That was all.

What else to detail? His household was unconventional and haphazard. His possessions were unusual and almost contradictory: skulls and seashells and weaponry and exotic plants. And those were only the items she’d glimpsed. There remained the matter of what lay behind that locked door in the library. Or of his journals, which lay scattered upon his desk.

She ought to read them.

The page was still blank before her. It was this paralyzing panic, leaving her unable to string words together, that had caused her downward spiral at
The London Weekly
. Every column now was her last chance, and she felt it like a lump in her throat. She could not afford unwritten pages.

She ought to go see about those journals. Or that locked room.

Perhaps tomorrow, Eliza thought, daring a longing glance at her bed. But the risk of discovery in daytime was too great.

She ought to go now, even though it was nearly midnight.

No, she might encounter the duke. Her pulse quickened.

Or, she thought, a smile playing at her lips, she might encounter the duke in a dark and quiet house. Either way, she would find something to write about.

Impulsively she grabbed her wrapper and blew out the candle in her bedchamber. Under the cover of darkness she made her way down the stairs and into the library. Fortunately, the fire had not died down completely.

Eliza crept over to his desk, heart pounding and breath held.

Get the story.
Get the story.
The words were never far from her mind.

But . . . was that a pang of guilt? She had not missed the duke’s irritation when his idiot cousin freely explored his personal papers, as she was about to do now.

Or was that excitement upon discovering the Wicked Duke of Wycliff’s personal journal detailing his travels and the devil only knew what else? She lifted the cover and saw rows of the duke’s scrawl.

Get the story.
Get the story.

Eliza took a moment to light a candle. The words now appeared before her.

Tahiti, 1823.

Miri enlightened me to some exquisite positions, the likes of which no English maiden would ever dare . . .

Eliza’s cheeks burned hot as she continued to read. Had that been a pang of guilt? It was no match for her curiosity, especially about relations between a man and a woman that she would never have imagined. She flipped the page.

Lord above, there were illustrations, too!

What she experienced now was certainly not guilt and far surpassed curiosity. She felt an awareness that was new to her. A new heat, a new intensity, in places she’d never really felt before. The dusky centers of her breasts were suddenly exquisitely sensitive. Suddenly every part of her was begging for attention.

All of this warred with jealousy for this girl, Miri, who had experienced some sort of rapture with the duke
under an unfathomably starry sky with a warm and sultry island breeze stealing over our naked, heated skin.

Eliza fanned herself. She continued to read of their passionate encounters and the outrageous pain from the tattooing; of learning the native language, the social rules, and plant-hunting expeditions far inland; of gloriously lazy afternoons swimming in the turquoise surf.

She flipped back to the very vivid illustrations. She turned the book sideways. She tilted her head. And then she dared to dream . . . dared to imagine herself with the duke in these positions no English maiden would ever try.

A gasp escaped her lips. Her heart was thudding hard and fast in her chest. She felt positively strangled by her dressing gown. This was becoming too much.

Eliza slammed the journal shut, placed it back on his desk and blew out the candle. She had not read much that could be used in her column—unless she wanted to ruin every maiden in London, and perhaps a few marriages, with some very graphic descriptions of outrageously pleasurable lovemaking.

Such were Eliza’s thoughts and she tiptoed down the hall and crossed the foyer, barely concealed by the sconces that had been left burning. The duke. His pleasure. Her writing. The pangs of guilt returned, but still they were no match for the hot spark of desire that, tonight, had been nurtured into a slow, smoldering fire.

She was halfway across the wide expanse of the marble foyer when the duke entered through the front door. Apparently, he had been out.

“Eliza.” His voice was low, but lud, did it carry in the vast, empty hall.

“Your Grace,” she whispered. How did one greet a duke in the middle of the night, whilst in her dressing gown? Well, she knew how Miri would greet him . . .

She haphazardly bobbed into a curtsey instead.

Slowly, Wycliff crossed the foyer, with those long, determined strides of his, and she had every opportunity to admire the power, barely restrained, in his every movement. He stood before her.

It was dark. Late. She’d just been reading the very intimate details of his passionate lovemaking and found herself breathless.

“It’s late for a housemaid to be scurrying through the halls,” the duke remarked. “And in her dressing gown, too . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper and trailed off. That awareness she’d felt earlier she felt again now, in spades. Her every nerve was at attention, awaiting something, anything, from him.

“I had forgotten something,” she managed.

“What would that be?”

My wits, Eliza thought. My sense of decency. My respect for other people’s private property and privacy. And a bit of maidenly virtue, too, she realized, given the tantalizing descriptions and images she’d just read and seen.

“I wanted to check on the fires . . .” she said, like a practiced actress. Or liar. It was definitely pangs of guilt that she was experiencing, and they were growing stronger now, overtaking any feelings of curiosity or desire she’d felt earlier.

He was a man—albeit one who’d led a fascinating life and who was devastatingly handsome. He was a man who deserved his privacy, his reputation. And he was a man who made her heart skip beats just with a glance, who made her feel breathless and light-headed with every knowing smile he threw her way. A man who intrigued her, set her aflame, a man who . . .

. . . was clasping her waist with one, warm hand. Who knew that the curve of her hip possessed such sensitivity?

Eliza tilted her head back to look up at him. His eyes were unbelievably dark in this light, but there was no mistaking the spark there—desire, or mischief, she wasn’t sure. Did not much care at the moment.

His mouth closed down on hers. His lips were warm and she was hot and melting under their gentle pressure. With his tongue, he lightly traced the seam of her lips, urging her to open to him, and she did. He tasted of drink—but also danger and experience and power and the sort of wicked pleasure that had never occurred to her before tonight.

Wycliff clasped his hands on her cheeks, his fingers threading through her hair. That heat was overwhelming now. She wished for a sultry island breeze to pass the foyer, to cool her outrageously hot skin. But that thought lead to the book, to the pictures, to the wrong she had committed by reading his private papers.

Still, she kissed him. How one said no to this Wicked Wycliff was beyond her. One probably did not, hence the name. It was impossible for her to utter that little word,
no
, when he kissed her like it was the first time and last time all at once, not when he held her so possessively. And she liked it.
Like
was perhaps not the word. She would think about that later . . . for now, she tentatively placed her hands upon his chest and felt his heart pounding hard beneath her palms. The clock inconveniently ruined the moment. One loud chime broke the silence and signaled the hour was very late indeed. The kiss was over.

He said one word, “Go,” in a rough voice, and she hurried up the stairs, all the way to her tiny chamber on the third floor.

The sheet of paper was still there, blank. The good news: she had discovered delicious information for her column. The wretched part: after that kiss, he was no longer mere fodder, but a hot-blooded, passionate man, and it tore at her heart to think of committing his secrets to print.

Chapter 8

Introducing “The Tattooed Duke”

Saturday morning

T
o his surprise, Wycliff had company for breakfast—other than good old Harlan, who never missed a meal. Harlan was attempting to eat with one arm, thanks to that ridiculous sling he insisted upon wearing, all for an injury that had occurred ages ago.

Wycliff had picked up with Harlan somewhere around Zanzibar, and never quite lost him. They’d battled sharks, pirates, and other disasters. They’d taken turns saving each other’s lives.

Harlan had moved into the ducal residence without asking and had taken to scheming about future adventures “in places with better weather” and flirting with the housemaids and taking whiskey-laced tea with Mrs. Penelope Buxby.

Wycliff thus far had resisted the urge to pump Harlan for information about the delectable Eliza of the heart-stopping midnight kiss. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t, of course, drunk and morose as he’d been over the bad news about the dukedom’s finances. But damn, had that kiss been worth it.

Harlan glanced at Eliza and back at the duke, who carefully adopted a blank expression. Wycliff knew that if Harlan had the merest inkling that he harbored even the most fleeting, passing fancy for a girl, he would be mercilessly and relentlessly taunted for it. Harlan was probably just past his thirtieth year, but his maturity had not advanced much beyond thirteen.

Eliza presently attempted to serve them breakfast; it involved a clattering of glasses and plates and curses under her breath. She was a terrible servant (but did that chit know how to kiss!), though Mrs. Buxby swore that she came with glowing recommendations from a duchess and a countess. That, and he was given to understand that applicants were not exactly lining up to serve such a notorious family.

In a better household, a footman might have done her job. But funds were limited, and staff as well. Jobs that must be done by men were done by the few footmen, leaving housemaids to serve meals in their place. But Wycliff was not a man to stand on ceremony.

He caught a glance from Eliza’s ocean blue eyes. She took it as a request to refill his coffee—a habit he had acquired in Turkey.

He didn’t really want any. But as she stood to pour, he noticed that her breasts were exactly at his eye level, thanks to his seated position and her standing position. He would be drinking an exorbitant amount of the stuff this morning.

“Your Grace,” Saddler intoned from somewhere just behind his shoulder. Wycliff swore under his breath and fought the urge to jump in shock. The butler had the damnedest habit of moving silently and just
appearing
. It was unnerving.

“You have callers,” he intoned, holding out a silver tray bearing the card of Mr. Monroe Burke, who shortly after entered with a newspaper folded in hand.

Splendid. More mouths to feed.

“Where have you come to whisk me away to today?” Wycliff asked dryly. The last time Burke had just dropped in on him had been in Tahiti. That was about a year after Burke had deliberately stranded him there. Ah, friendly competition.

But then Burke had sailed back with news of his inheritance and a “free” passage back to England. Wycliff hadn’t realized what he was inheriting. He might have stayed on those warm white sands, under cloudless skies and a hot sun.

“Good morning to you, too, Your Grace,” Burke replied. “I’ve come to see how you’re settling in.”

“Plagued by creditors, annoyed with the weather, longing for sunshine, and already bored with the title,” Wycliff answered, sipping his coffee. Things were worse than he had anticipated. His hope for a quick visit in his native lands was fading.

“And missing the free, easy, and much more naked women of Tahiti,” Harlan added, with a wink of his good eye.

Burke grinned and said, “Let’s start a club.”

He saw Eliza’s eyes widen. With another day or two in the Wycliff household she wouldn’t be shocked by anything.

“Why are we here, then?” Wycliff asked. “I see no advantages to life in England.”

“We’re here because you’ve become a duke,” Burke pointed out. “You have responsibilities.”

Harlan pulled a face.

“But that doesn’t explain what either of you are doing here.” Wycliff caught Eliza’s eye, and she sauntered over with the coffeepot. He attempted to glance discreetly at her breasts. They were round and heaving and lovely, and he’d just been at sail for far too long. He was a man, a Wycliff. He couldn’t help but look.

“I like to balance my adventures at sea with adventures in London,” Burke answered.

“Cheers to that,” Harlan added, raising his glass, and Wycliff turned away from ogling Eliza’s breasts to join in.

“Is it not bad luck to toast with water. Or tea?” Burke wondered. “Or all that coffee he’s drinking?”

“Who says there’s nothing stronger in this?” Harlan replied, grinning. “The housekeeper keeps quite the stash.”

“That’s where all the money is,” Wycliff muttered, but only Eliza heard him. He delighted in the soft rush of her breath; laughter, restrained.

“So, have you forgiven me yet, Wycliff?” Burke asked. It was strange to have his childhood friend address him by this new name of his, the title. He thought about saying something, but knew that he was lucky to be addressed as such and not some horribly insulting appellation that served to highlight friendship.

He didn’t feel like Wycliff yet either. But that didn’t signify.

“Forgiven you for tracking me down in paradise and returning me to cold, rainy, responsibility laden England? Never.”

“It’s growing on me,” Harlan said.

Wycliff turned to him, appalled. “Yesterday you had a list of seventy-three places to travel to that were far better than England.”

“Hadn’t hit the town yet,” Harlan remarked. “Did last night. English lasses are quite something.” Wycliff glanced over at Eliza.

A coy suggestive smile played on her lips. His own romp last night had done nothing to satiate his desire, and it was the housemaid he kept thinking about.

“Complete sentences are also ‘quite something,’ ” Wycliff remarked.

“Well excuse me, Your Graceship, not all of us attended Eton,” Harlan retorted, purposefully mangling the form of address.

“I see the bickering continues,” Burke cut in with a smirk. “You two are like an old married couple.”

“Aye, all bickering, no bedding,” Harlan quipped and Wycliff scowled in annoyance . . . and noted a gleam of amusement in Eliza’s eyes.

“Thank you for clearing that up,” Wycliff drawled.

“I don’t think those are the rumors you need to be concerned about,” Burke stated ominously.

“Yes, I know, with this earring and my long hair I’ll never get into bloody boring Almack’s,” Wycliff said, utterly sarcastically.

“Bugger Almack’s. I mean
The London Weekly
,” Burke said, holding the issue up.

“It’s a newspaper,” Wycliff stated plainly, sipping his coffee.

“
Au contraire
. It’s not just any newspaper,” Burke contradicted, and his lips curved into a smile . . . the same one Wycliff had seen just before towering waves crashed down on their ship, or before he uttered the news about his father and the dukedom, tainting that beautiful day in Paradise. It was the smile reserved for unpleasant information.

He sipped his coffee and waited. He looked at Burke, and then shifted his gaze to the left where Eliza was pouring tea with a faint smile on her lips, and then back to Burke for his explanation of the
special
newspaper.

D
amn right, it’s not just any paper, Eliza thought as she poured more tea for this Burke fellow. Was it from the regular pot, or the one for Harlan with Mrs. Buxby’s special blend of whiskey tea? She couldn’t recall.

Oh well, a little whiskey in the morning never hurt anyone. She caught the duke’s eye and moved to refill his coffee cup. He drank an excessive amount.

“And just what is so special about this one?” the duke asked, clearly skeptical.

“The Writing Girls, for one thing,” Burke answered, and she tried not to smile.

“Ah, it’s written by women? I suppose it contains the latest reports on hair ribbons, hemlines, and face paint. I can assure you that is of no interest to me,” the duke said.

Eliza considered allowing the steaming hot liquid to overflow from the cup to his lap. She hated such typical comments about women’s interests. But then again, that was similar to the hotheaded letter she had written to Knightly, demanding he hire a woman writer—herself— covering Serious Issues instead of weddings, gossip, and love advice.

And now here she was as a maid, for Lord’s sake, reporting gossip about a scandalous, handsome duke. She was tempted to sigh.

Get the story.
Get the story . . .

“It’s not hair ribbons, you dolt,” Burke replied. “I doubt even girls in the schoolroom are interested in that. This paper is full of tawdry news and gossip, always veering on the salacious and the scandalous.
Everyone
reads it.”

Eliza’s heart fluttered with pride. For his passionate description of
The Weekly,
this Mr. Monroe Burke would see himself flatteringly portrayed in her next article.

“Everyone?” Wycliff lifted one brow questioningly.

“One cannot have a conversation in the ton without having read it. Both high- and lowborn alike follow it avidly,” Burke explained. It was true; the rest of the staff was poring over it in the kitchens this very minute.

“Another caller, Your Grace,” Saddler intoned, and Eliza nearly jumped from the surprise. How a man could move so silently was beyond her.

The duke’s idiot cousin bounded in behind him.

“I say, are you talking about
The London Weekly
?” He asked. Today he wore a violet-colored waistcoat that clashed violently with his complexion.

“Even Basil knows about it,” Burke pointed out.

“Well, now
that
is saying something,” the duke said.

“Did you read the story about you, cousin? I say, I expected you to be in a roar of a temper, but since you are not, I reckon you hadn’t seen it yet.”

“Is that why you’re here, too? To witness a scene?” the duke asked Burke.

“In part,” Burke answered. “That, and Timbuktu.”

“Timbuktu?” Wycliff echoed with interest.

“It’s warm there. And dry,” Harlan added. “No English lasses, though.”

“Are we going to read
The Weekly
or not?” Basil interrupted.

Wycliff snatched the paper from Burke, who said, “It’s on the second page.”

The second page! Her stories usually appeared on, oh, the seventeenth or eighteenth page, in the back next to the ads for magical cure-all creams for unmentionable conditions and the corset maker—for men.

“ ‘The Tattooed Duke,’ ” Burke began with a devilish grin, reading the title. Eliza wanted to explain that subtlety did not sell, but she kept her mouth shut. In fact, she bit down on her lip to keep from bursting into a smile. Her story, on the second page!

“How’d they find out about that?” Harlan asked, eyes wide and leaning forward.

The duke glanced at Eliza. She made a herculean effort to appear blank and thanked the Lord she had grown up in the theater.

“Anyone on the crew of my ship would have seen it,” Burke pointed out. “Many of whom have wives or exchanges with loose women, all who are prone to talk.”

“Oh, the tattoos!” Basil exclaimed, and the duke wearily rubbed his eyes. “Like in your drawing with the naked girl. I confess I did feel compelled to share that with the gents at my club. Was it a secret?”

That seemed to explain everything to their satisfaction. She dared to exhale a sigh of relief.

“Keep reading,” the duke demanded, shoving the paper back to Burke.

“Very well, Your Grace,” Burke replied, “Or should I say ‘Your Tattooed Grace’? Doesn’t sound quite right, does it?”

“Isn’t it interesting that something so commonplace on one side of the world should be such a novelty elsewhere?” Harlan mused.

“Keep reading,” Wycliff demanded, and Burke did, reading aloud the details of the duke’s wild, foreign appearance and the tattoos.

“The native artwork covers His Grace’s broad chest, shoulders and upper arms. With his hair pulled back and the extensive, inky black tattoos, he appears to be a dangerous, heathen warrior.

The women also endure, as witnessed by sketches in His Grace’s collection that depict tattooed hands strategically placed to cover some particularly feminine charms. Other illustrations depict strange flora and fauna that would be of great interest to the gardeners at Kew. More interesting to the bucks of the ton are the duke’s drawings of native women with their tattoos, long jet hair, sultry smiles, and an utter lack of corsets, dresses, stockings, and the other frippery with which young ladies deck themselves. Does His Grace now expect such free behavior from England’s belles?”