The Tattooed Duke
Page 4
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
To 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.
“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.
Damn 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?”
“So they’re all naked?” Basil asked breathlessly. Eliza cringed.
“It’s too bloody hot to wear clothing,” Harlan answered.
“What happened to your eye? And your arm?” Basil asked.
“Pirate attack,” he answered gravely. The other day, Eliza overhead him telling Thomas the footman that he’d been wrestling with a shark. And before that, that a sacrifice to the gods had gone awry.
Burke continued to read: “ ‘The duke did not even deny ravishing hundreds of women in one night in a harem. Ladies of London, beware! This duke appears to possess exotic and unquenchable tastes.’ ”
“I’m not particularly bothered by this,” the duke said. “Although, it doesn’t mention my achievements for the crown.”
“Such as spreading citizens all over the world?” Harlan added.
“Like father, like son,” Burke dared to say, to the duke’s glare.
“Promoting England abroad. Facilitating the exchange of cultures,” the duke answered smugly.
One of the gentlemen snorted.
“The ton is in an uproar,” Basil stated. “My missus took callers before noon for the sole purpose of discussing this. One of them even fainted. I heard them screeching for the smelling salts.”
“Really?” Wycliff asked.
“Indeed. It’s the tattoos. And the earring. And the piracy,” Basil added. “And the naked women. All those marriage-minded mama’s are the ones to watch out for, and right now they’re deciding if the fact that you are a duke is reason enough to overlook everything else about you.”
The duke was silent, and Eliza wondered if he did plan to marry. She felt a fluttering in her belly at the thought, which she dismissed as ridiculous.
“If you are no
t inclined to marriage, then I have news for you,” Burke said, and the duke gave him his full attention. “The French government has offered ten thousand pounds to whomever reaches Timbuktu first.”
Eliza wanted to laugh at the range of expressions from disgust at the mention of “French” to wide-eyed wonder upon “Timbuktu.”
“And returns, I presume?” Wycliff clarified.
“I’m thinking of preparing an expedition myself,” Burke said calmly, but the duke looked like he was about to spit poison. The men’s gazes locked, tense, vicious.
“What is Timbuktu?” Basil asked, and Eliza was glad of the idiot cousin for asking such questions that she also wished to know.
“It’s a city in Africa, where the streets are paved with gold, where it rains diamonds, and all the women are naked and free with their affections,” Burke answered.
“Don’t listen to him, Basil,” the duke contradicted. “It’s a legendary city in Africa that is probably nothing more than a pathetic collection of mud huts. But no European has ever been able to get there, and certainly no one has ever returned from the attempt.”
“Until the great Monroe Burke,” said the damned Monroe Burke.
“Or the Duke of Wycliff. You know it’s always been my intention to take up this challenge. To Timbuktu. I believe I informed you of that on the return from Tahiti. At length, and in detail,” Wycliff replied tensely. Eliza watched the flash of annoyance cross Burke’s features before they settled into something like amusement.
“And the great rivalry between us continues,” Burke said grandly, attempting to dismiss the duke’s quiet fury. “From the privies of Eton to the golden mud huts of Timbuktu.”
Eliza cleared the plates, and when she arrived with them in the kitchen, the cook and the maids were all huddled around their own issue of The London Weekly. They were reading “The Tattooed Duke.” She fought hard to keep her smile sly, but a giant grin tugged and broke through. She had, at last, arrived.