Three Schemes and a Scandal (20 page)

Thus far this little maid with the sea-blue eyes and salty language was the only thing of interest in England.

“What is your name?” he asked.

She hesitated before answering. “Eliza.”

With her arms laden with the tea tray, she managed a short, awkward curtsey on her way out, treating him to a splendid view of her backside, again.

Once she was gone, he pulled the key from the leather cord he wore around his neck and used it to unlock and open the door leading from the library to a room otherwise cut off from the rest of the house. It was here that he kept those things he wished no one to see. Not yet.

Later that day, dusk

E
LIZA STOOD OUTSIDE
the door to His Grace’s bedchamber, summoning the gumption to walk in unannounced while His Grace was in a bath. Naked. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a naked man before. She wasn’t some sheltered missish thing.

The protocol for a situation like this eluded her: a naked duke, in the bath, without a drying cloth. She probably shouldn’t go in. Or should she? Having never grown up with servants, nor having been one herself, Eliza was learning everything about her new job the hard way.

She had filled that damned bathtub—hauling heavy buckets of boiling water up three floors—with the help of another housemaid, Jenny. The task required moving fast enough to keep the water warm, but not so fast that they’d spill it. It had been excruciating. The duke had better enjoy his damned bath.

In Eliza’s haste and inexperience, she had forgotten to leave a drying cloth. She did not yet know if he was the type to roar and holler in anger, and she did not care to find out, because he was an imposing, intimidating hulk of a man and because she was the type to roar and holler back. That spelled trouble. That spelled
fired,
and she could not lose this position or her story for
The London Weekly.

Get the story
.
Get the story.

Thus, she debated. Leave him without a drying cloth? Or interrupt?

He hadn’t arrived with a valet, or hired one yet, which meant there was no one else to attend to him …

Such was the life of a writer, undercover and in disguise. The things she did for Mr. Knightly, and for
The Weekly
! If she had to go to such lengths to get a story published—employed as a housemaid in the most scandalous household in town—then by damn, she would. She would
not
lose her position. Not over this.

She ought to go in, she reasoned. She would not pay attention to him, and he would do the same because she was a servant and thus utterly beneath his notice. That much she knew about master and servant relations. Yet she had a feeling it would not be so simple.

Eliza recalled the way His Grace had looked at her in the study this afternoon, and how his gaze felt like an intimate caress. The man left her breathless.

“Bother it all,” she muttered, and entered his chambers. Then she stopped short.

She saw the duke in the bath, as expected. But it was no ordinary sight. His hair was wet and slicked back from his face, showing off strong, hard features. His mouth was full and firm and not smiling. Even in this pose of relaxation, he put her in mind of a warrior: always aware, always ready.

The water lapped at his waist, his chest a wide, exposed expanse of taut skin over sculpted muscle. As Eliza stepped toward him and saw more of the man illuminated by the burning embers in the grate and the flickering of candles, she noticed that his chest was covered in inky blue-black lines. Tattoos, like the drawing.

She gasped. His eyes opened.

“Hello, Eliza.” The duke’s voice was low, smoky, and sent tremors down her spine. The window was slightly ajar and the cool breeze made the candle flames dance wildly, casting slate-colored shadows, making the room seem like some strange, magical, otherworld.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, and bobbed into a curtsey.

“Have you come to join me?” he asked in a rough voice, and she could not tell if he was serious or bamming her.

“My wages don’t cover that, either, Your Grace,” she replied, not yet having mastered her subservience, but she was rewarded for her impertinence when his mouth curved into a grin.

Eliza’s gaze inevitably drifted back to his nudity. The tattooing covered the broad expanse of his muscled chest, wrapping up over the shoulders and generously covering his upper arms, even inching onto his forearms. A million questions were poised on the tip of her tongue. Yet her mouth was suddenly too dry to form words.

“Tattoos,” he confirmed, reading her mind. “It’s a Tahitian custom. When in Rome …”

“You mentioned that it was painful,” she said, referring to the exchange earlier. “It seems like it must be.”

“Like the devil.”

“Why would you do it, then?”

“Because to not do so is considered cowardly,” he explained in a low voice.

“That’s all? Because you do not wish to be seen as weak in front of men on the far side of the world?”

The duke laughed. “You don’t understand men, do you?”

“Apparently not,” she replied dryly.

“The sketches are one thing to see; this is another entirely. Wouldn’t you agree?” Eliza nodded yes. “It’s a record of my travels, and one of many artifacts that I have collected and brought back to England. There’s a whole world out there, beyond London. People should know that.”

“Can I look closer?” she asked in a whisper, because it seemed too illicit to ask a duke for an intimate glimpse of his person. But she had to see the tattoos up close. If she could touch them, she would. This was the sort of thing
The Weekly
would love. But also, her own curiosity impelled her to seek satisfaction.

Eliza knelt by the tub to see the tattoos, but her attention was also drawn to the scar she noticed on his upper lip, and the stubble upon his jaw. He had a clean, soapy scent that was at odds with the air of danger around him.

His head was close to hers, his mouth only inches away.

She wanted to touch his skin, to know if the tattoos left it rough or smooth. To feel the hard muscles of his arms and his chest underneath her palms. For
The Weekly,
of course.

As if the duke could read her mind, he took her hand and rested it on his bicep, just above where the tattoo began.

With a glance at him for permission, she traced her fingers along the lines—some straight, some jagged, some swirling up and around the curve of his shoulder and leading her down to the expanse of his torso. She splayed her palm across his chest and felt his hot skin and pulsing heartbeat.

The duke’s hand closed over hers.

The candles were still wavering, throwing shadows. Steam rose up from the water, making the air hot and humid between them. His lips parted—to kiss her or rebuke her for being so forward?

Her own lips opened to tell him that she was not that kind of girl. Yet Eliza was in the habit of ignoring common sense and better judgment when it came to satisfying her curiosity, chasing a story or embracing adventure. Or men. She had secrets and stories to prove it.

Jenny, the other housemaid, chose that moment to enter the room. There was a sigh of relief—hers or the duke’s? Eliza snatched her hand away. The duke leaned back and closed his eyes as she stood and moved away from him to speak to the other maid.

“I was just checking if His Grace was finished,” Jenny said in a whisper. “We’ll have to remove the tub and water tonight.” Then her eyes widened as she noted the duke’s tattoos as well. “And you’ll need to turn down the bed, and all that. And have a care … you know his reputation.”

Intrigued? Discover more about
The Tattooed Duke
at
http://www.mayarodale.com/
.

An Excerpt from

SEDUCING MR. KNIGHTLY

O
BITUARY

Today England mourns the loss of Lord Charles Peregrine Fincher, sixth Earl of Harrowby and one of its finest citizens.

The Morning Post

St. George’s Church

London, 1808

D
EREK KNIGHTLY HAD
not been invited to his father’s funeral. Nevertheless, he rode hell for leather from his first term at Cambridge to be there. The service had already commenced when he stalked across the threshold dressed in unrelenting black, still dusty from the road. To remove him would cause a scene.

If there was anything his father’s family had loathed—other than him—it was a scene.

The late Earl of Harrowby had expired unexpectedly of an apoplexy, leaving behind his countess, his heir, and one daughter. He was also succeeded by his beloved mistress of over twenty years, and their son.

Delilah Knightly hadn’t wanted to attend; her son tried to persuade her.

“We have every right to be there,” he said forcefully. He might not be the heir or even have his father’s name, but Derek Knightly was the earl’s firstborn and beloved son.

“My grief will not be fodder for gossips, Derek, and if we attend it shall cause a massive scene. Besides, the Harrowby family will be upset. We shall mark his passing privately, just the two of us,” she said, patting his hand in a weak consolation. Delilah Knightly, exuberant darling of the London stage, had become a forlorn shell of her former self.

In grief, Knightly couldn’t find the words to explain his desperate need to hear the hymns sung in low mournful tones by the congregation, or to throw a handful of cool dirt on the coffin as they lowered it into the earth. The rituals would make it real, otherwise he’d always live with the faint expectation that his father might come round again.

He needed to say good-bye.

Most of all, Derek desperately wanted a bond to his father’s other life—including the haute ton where the earl had spent his days and some nights, the younger brother Derek never had adventures with and a younger sister he never teased—so it might not seem like the man was gone entirely and forever.

Whenever young Knightly had asked questions about the other family, the earl would offer sparse details: another son who dutifully learned his lessons and not much else, a sister fond of tea parties with her vast collection of dolls. There was the country estate in Kent that Knightly felt he knew if only by all the vivid stories told to him at night before bed. His father described the inner workings of Parliament over the breakfast table. But mostly the earl wanted to step aside from his proper role and public life to enjoy the woman he loved and his favored child—and forget the rest.

Knightly went to the funeral. Alone.

The doors had been closed. He opened them.

The service had begun. Knightly disrupted it. Hundreds of sadly bowed heads turned back to look at this intruder. He straightened his spine and dared them to oppose his presence with a fierce look from his piercing blue eyes.

He had every right to be here. He belonged here.

Derek caught the eye of the new earl, held it, and grew hot with fury. Daniel Peregrine Fincher, now Lord Harrowby, just sixteen years of age, was a mere two years younger than his bastard half brother who had dared to intrude in polite company. He stood, drawing himself up to his full height, a full six inches less than Derek, and declared in a loud, reedy voice:

“Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.”

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

Dear Annabelle,

I desperately need your advice …

    Sincerely,

    Lonely in London

   
The London Weekly

Miss Annabelle Swift’s Attic Bedroom

London, 1825

S
OME THINGS ARE
simply true: the earth rotates around the sun, Monday follows Sunday, and Miss Annabelle Swift loves Mr. Derek Knightly with a passion and purity that would be breathtaking were it not for one other simple truth—Mr. Derek Knightly pays no attention to Miss Annabelle Swift.

It was love at first sight exactly three years, six months, three weeks, and two days ago, upon Annabelle’s first foray into the offices of
The London Weekly
. She was the new advice columnist—the lucky girl who had won a contest and the position of Writing Girl number four. She was a shy, unassuming miss—still was, truth be told.

He was the dashing and wickedly handsome editor and owner of the paper. Absolutely still was, truth be told.

In those three years, six months, three weeks, and two days, Knightly seemed utterly unaware of Annabelle’s undying affection. She sighed every time he entered the room. Gazed longingly. Blushed furiously should he happen to speak to her. She displayed all the signs of love, and by all accounts, these did not register for him.

By all accounts, it seemed an unwritten law of nature that Mr. Derek Knightly didn’t spare a thought for Miss Annabelle Swift. At all. Ever.

And yet, she hoped.

Why
did she love him?

To be fair, she did ask herself this from time to time.

Knightly was handsome, of course, breathtakingly and heart-stoppingly so. His hair was dark, like midnight, and he was in the habit of rakishly running his fingers through it, which made him seem faintly disreputable. His eyes were a piercing blue, and looked at the world with an intelligent, brutally honest gaze. His high, slanting cheekbones were like cliffs a girl might throw herself off in a fit of despair.

The man himself was single-minded, ruthless, and obsessed when it came to his newspaper business. He could turn on the charm, if he decided it was worth the bother. He was wealthy beyond imagination.