by Maya Rodale
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Wycliff replied, even as his thoughts strayed to Eliza, and what tasks she was performing at this hour. Probably turning down the beds. God, the thought of his delectable Eliza leaning over a bed made his breeches tight.
“I also heard you have made an appointment to see the Royal Society. What for?” Burke asked, glancing up from his cards.
“Was that in the papers, too?” Wycliff questioned.
“No, gossip at the club,” Burke said, and surprisingly, it stung. White’s and the other gentlemen’s clubs were dull and populated with pompous old windbags and idiotic second sons. But it rankled that there was a place he could not go.
“What else are they saying at the club?” he asked, careful not to let any feeling into his voice.
“That you’ll never receive funding from the Royal Society,” Burke replied. He puffed on his cigar.
“Why ever not?” Wycliff asked sharply.
“Because you are too scandalous. Too wild. To unpredictable,” Burke said frankly. Wycliff scowled. Because he was a Wicked Wycliff.
“You mean I’m not easily controlled,” he retorted.
“You’re not,” Harlan and Burke said in unison.
“They’re also saying that someone ought to go to Timbuktu,” Burke said. “That we cannot let the French claim it.” His every word landed like a gunshot. In an instant, Wycliff understood.
“Who is being suggested to go?” he asked, his voice clipped.
Burke refused to meet his eye, keeping his gaze on the cards in his hands. “Myself,” he said quietly.
“You are a sea captain. Timbuktu is in the middle of Africa,” Wycliff scoffed. Burke kept focused on his cards. Harlan smoked and avidly watched the conversation.
“I am not a walking scandal,” Burke replied. “I have a sterling reputation for carrying out orders. Successfully.”
Wycliff raised his brow. It was the only movement he would allow. Otherwise, he’d have been tempted to violence. Burke was the navy’s darling, and he was the black sheep, the rogue. But an experienced one.
“Do my accomplishments not matter?” he challenged. “The languages I have learned, the documentation I have compiled, the cultures I have studied, the plants and other specimens that I have accumulated?”
“You have a collection of stuff,” Burke said dismissively. “Which I carted back in the precious cargo space on my ship. You’re welcome.”
“I have knowledge of the world that will immensely benefit England,” Wycliff replied sharply. “Must I cut my hair, remove the earring, and dress up like a dandy to win their attention and favor?”
“It’s too late for that,” Burke said. “Everyone already knows about your tattoos. They know you’ve gone native. But if you really wish to change public perception of you, The Weekly is the way to go.”
“Am I to take out an advertisement? Write an article defending myself?”
“You could. Or you could discover who authors the Tattooed Duke column and give him something to write about, other than all the shocking, intimate details of your life. That’s what I would do.”
“And exact some revenge for what he already wrote,” said Harlan, the bloodthirsty wretch.
Wycliff sipped his drink thoughtfully. This idea had some merit. He ought to put a stop to it before it went further.
“After he publishes something flattering,” Burke added.
“Or she,” Harlan added.
She sucked in her breath from the other side of the library door where she shamelessly eavesdropped, extremely grateful the gents had left it ajar. Rivalry. A mysteriously locked door. Secret plans . . .
. . . and beds that needed to be prepared before His Grace turned in for the evening.
She was bent over the mattress, smoothing out the pillows, when he found her later that evening.
Chapter 14
In Which Attire Is Removed
The duke’s bedchamber
Later, after tucking away a cigar and a few brandies, Wycliff entered his bedchamber to find his maid bent over the mattress.
Housemaid. Housemaid. Housemaid.
He would do to remember that.
“My luck has changed,” he drawled from where he stood in the doorway. She peeked over her shoulder at him, and he saw her blue eyes coolly assessing the facts: a drunk duke in a doorway. Her fetching self bent over the bed.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, unfortunately straightening up into a significantly less compromising position. Alas.
Wycliff lifted one brow. She replied in kind.
He grinned, and groaned. The thing about avoiding one’s fate was that occasionally one wanted to accept parts of it. Like dallying with the maids in the grand tradition of the Wicked Wycliffs. This one maid, in particular.
But what did that one lift of her brow mean? He could not tell if it meant Yes, Your Grace or Dare not, Duke.
He’d seen—and stopped—men who hadn’t heeded a woman’s no. He didn’t want a reluctant woman, he wanted a passionate and generous lover. And that was the thing about a maid—how was he supposed to know she was surrendering because she wanted to or felt she ought to please her lord and master?
Damned luck being the Wycliff that cared about a chit’s feelings. That was a first. There were ways to tell, though, how willing and wanton a woman could be. He smiled slightly. Anticipation.
Wycliff pushed off from the doorjamb and sauntered into his room.
“Is there anything else I may assist you with, Your Grace?” Eliza asked ever so properly and politely. Funny, that, when he had such wicked thoughts.
“Since I have returned, I have not yet hired a valet,” he told her. In fact, he hadn’t had one since that sissy, Alderson, quit Greece and returned to England. He’d taken care of his own attire and shaving for so long, he hadn’t quite gotten around to hiring another valet. Besides, one didn’t take a valet to Timbuktu, and he hadn’t given up on that venture yet.
“I am aware of that, Your Grace.” It was so strange to be addressed as Your Grace. Or Wycliff. It didn’t feel like his name yet.
“The lack of valet means the burdensome task of removing my attire is left to me,” he explained. She crossed her arms over her chest, which did marvelous things to her breasts, and gave him a look of utter contemptuous disbelief. He grinned and pressed on.
“Given my lofty stature, I can’t possibly be expected to perform such a menial task myself. To answer your question, yes, there is something that I require your assistance with.”
“I am at your service, Your Grace,” she said smoothly. Wicked little minx.
“I require assistance removing my attire,” he said, feeling like such an ass until her blue eyes darkened and the slightest gasp escaped her lips.
“Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she whispered. A smile played on her lips, the kind of woman’s smile that said, You’ll pay for this, mister. He knew it well. All over the world, from London’s ballrooms to harems to the islands of Tahiti, women smiled like that.
The sweet, seductive torture was about to begin.
First, she smoothed her hands across his shoulders and chest. He didn’t wear a cravat because he couldn’t be bothered with tying a scrap of fabric in an elaborate nooselike knot around his neck. He’d left his jacket in the study, reeking of cigar smoke.
Then her small female hands slid down to the buttons on his waistcoat.
Her eyes met his. Her blue eyes, like the ocean. He could barely tell in the light of a few candles and the moon, but he knew from memory.
One button undone.
Never breaking his gaze, she made short work of the other two. Her fingers delicately brushed against his stomach, and the look in her eyes promised wicked things. His breath hitched in his throat and the corners of his mouth tugged up into a grin.
He lowered his mouth, but after only the briefest touch of his lips upon hers, Eliza gasped and ducked her head away. For a moment he tasted her. For a fleeting se
cond he knew her. Then she pushed back the fabric of the waistcoat, over his shoulders and off. Bold little thing.
Like a good valet, she carefully folded it and set it aside. He wanted to rip it from her hands, drop it on the floor, and proceed with her ravishment.
Next, she grabbed handfuls of his shirt, untucked it from his breeches and gently tugged the damned thing overhead. Again with the bloody folding. He groaned in frustration. She smiled with all the patience of a saint and the wicked designs of a vengeful, seductive goddess.
This housemaid was not just some young chit. But who was she? Wycliff stood before her with his torso bare—and his tattoos black, bold, and undisguised. She eyed the key, tied to the leather cord around his neck. He shouldn’t have allowed her to see that. But he was too far gone with lust to think clearly.
His breeches strained to contain him.
She was not unaffected. He knew, because he saw the heavy rise and fall of her breasts. He held her by the waist, his palm open, urging her close enough to kiss. He needed to. He needed to know her. He needed to feel her heart beat and taste her and breathe her in.
“Your Grace . . .” Her breath was but a whisper.
“When it’s just us, call me Sebastian. Wycliff is . . . something else. Someone else.” And that was the distinction, wasn’t it?
He, Sebastian, wanted to be with her, Eliza.
But to the world it would look like another roué Wycliff duke seducing the housemaid.
“Sebastian,” she said, tracing her fingertip along the waistband of his breeches, which unbelievably became even tighter. He was so damned hard, it was becoming impossible to breathe, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest.
That tantalizing trace of her fingers continued, but lamentably up and not down. She was entranced by his tattoos. For the first time since arriving in London, he was glad of them, if only because they intrigued her.
When he could tolerate it no longer, Wycliff claimed her for a kiss. In that instant he knew that her desire was real. He knew that she kissed him because she wanted to, needed to, as he did. Not because he was lord and master.
And he knew, because her kiss was tentative and teasing at first. He urged her to open to him; she tasted so sweet. She kissed him harder, and he liked it. He nibbled her lower lip. When she did the same to him, he was almost undone.
She kissed him truly, passionately, not with the practice and coldheartedness of a seductress. And like that, she had managed a small claim on his heart.
Eliza wasn’t just some housemaid to him.
She was, in fact, the most luscious, heady, intoxicating woman, and with her warm and willing in his grasp, he started toward the bed.
After all, she had just murmured his name with unmistakable longing. She was melting under his touch, he could feel it. Her every sigh and moan, every inch of her hot flesh against his, told him one truth: she wanted him.
Must go to the bed, he thought . . . Where he would act like nothing more than the typical Wicked Wycliff he was trying very hard not to be.
A Wycliff would take her now.
He refused to be a Wycliff.
Sebastian let her go.
Only later, when Eliza was safely upstairs in her own narrow chamber with the door locked behind her, did she pause to exhale. Her dress felt too tight, too hot. She wanted to rip it off. She wanted Wycliff to rip it off. But that was impossible.
Sebastian . . . the pleasure she felt at being given that intimacy of using his true name hit her like a heady rush. She told herself it was a professional accomplishment to be so intimate with her subject.
The story. The story. The story.
This would not grace the pages of The London Weekly.
Because that kiss wasn’t for the story at all but for her own pleasure. A man hadn’t made her feel this way since . . . well, ever. Not even with L— Not even in Brighton.
Chapter 15
In Which the Duke Does Some Sleuthing
Wycliff wasn’t such a fool that he thought a visit to The London Weekly would produce anything other than frustration. At best, the editor, proprietor, and publisher of such inflammatory, slanderous, libelous content might slip up and reveal a clue about the author. He might even be intimidated enough to tone the rubbish down for subsequent columns.
He wasn’t such a fool to think that the editor would cease publication of what word on the street said was the most popular thing in town. But something had to be done to keep the scandal under control, especially with Burke sniffing around his expedition. Wycliff would not roll over and surrender his lifelong dream so easily. He wasn’t French after all.
The offices of the newspaper were remarkably easy to find, thanks to the sign hanging over the door declaring THE LONDON WEEKLY in capital letters decked in gold leaf. The source of all his ills was clearly marked, right there on 57 Fleet Street. He could see it from a block away.
The entry was blocked by a man of gargantuan proportions.
“What’s your business?” he asked gruffly, with a faint accent that Wycliff placed as somewhere far to the east of Europe. His arms, thick as logs, were folded over his whiskey barrel chest. The man’s skin was swarthy, his brows thick and his eyes black. Wycliff estimated him to be of Turkish origin.
“I’m here to see Mr. Knightly,” he stated.
“Are you now?” the man asked. Listening closely, Wycliff was now quite sure of his Turkish roots. The giant grinned, and not in a nice way. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Mr. Knightly can’t possibly be surprised by my arrival.” A few of this massive man’s teeth had gone missing. Wycliff’s options were clear: attempt battle and likely lose; attempt to negotiate and likely lose.
“Are you the Tattooed Duke?”
“The very one. I hope proof is not required. At least not on the street,” Wycliff said. And then he added a line in Turkish.
“You know my language,” the giant said, awed.
“I know a lot of languages,” Wycliff replied. “When one’s life depends upon the good graces of a foreign host, the least a man can do is learn a few lines in their native tongue.”
“You are not like regular Englishmen,” the giant observed.
“I should hope not. And you, too, for you wouldn’t sell nearly as many newspapers if I was.”
“I’ll let you in to see Knightly, but I won’t do anything to stop that column. We’ve all seen an increase in wages since it started running.”
“An interview with Mr. Knightly is all I ask.”
“Upstairs, second on the right. Tell ’em I’ve let you through.” Then the giant grinned, and it was a terrifying thing.
It was easy enough to find Knightly behind his desk. That Wycliff had gotten past the beast guarding the door seemed sufficient reason for everyone to let him carry on with his business.
“You must be Knightly,” Wycliff said, standing in the open doorway. The man put down his pen. He reached casually for the top of his desk drawer, where most editors kept a good assortment of weaponry, starting with a loaded pistol. Let him be afraid. Wycliff looked down at the newspaperman.
“And you are?” the man asked coolly.
“Wycliff. Perhaps better known as the Tattooed Duke.”
“Ah, I see,” Knightly said, leaning back in his chair.
“Your beast of a man at the door let me through.”
“Really? I hope you haven’t extracted much damage. I’m fond of Mehitable.” Knightly had piercing blue eyes, black hair, and a manner that seemed at ease, though Wycliff could tell that the man was tense and aware.
“Mehitable and I came to an understanding,” Wycliff explained. “I’m here so that you and I might do the same.”
In another part of the office he heard the low hum of male voices punctuated by the chatter of women. Wycliff turned his head to look up the hallway but didn’t catch a glimpse of those infamous Writing Girls.
Since an invitation did not seem to be forthcoming from the editor, an
d he was the higher ranking of the two, Wycliff ambled into the room and looked around. It was a richly appointed chamber, designed to intimidate and impress.
Knightly stood up from his chair and walked over to the sideboard. “I should find it much more tolerable with a drink. Would you care for one as well?”
“Yes, thank you. You are in the habit of angering people, I presume.”
“The threat of irate lords and ladies keeps Mehitable employed. And the rest of us as well, for that matter,” Knightly said, handing Wycliff a glass of brandy. “I know why you’re here. You’re upset over your portrayal in my newspaper. However, the next issue is already off to the printer, and I shan’t stop the presses on account of anyone, even some mad, bad duke. If you wish to argue or protest, please do go on. Know that I won’t change a thing and I thank you for at least allowing me the courtesy of alcohol whilst I must endure your complaints.”
“I feel so special,” Wycliff deadpanned. Knightly choked on his drink. “I never met a problem that was solved by complaining about it. I don’t expect that any sort of outburst, angry threat, or emotional plea will change your plans to mine my private life for your public gain.”
“Then what brings you here? If you wish to duel, you need only say the word. We can schedule it—I believe I am free next Tuesday—and I can return to my work,” Knightly said, then sipped his drink.
“I thought this issue was already at the presses,” Wycliff said, trying to catch him in a lie.
“My work is ongoing, relentless,” Knightly replied. There were faint lines around the corner of his eyes; he probably wasn’t lying.
“However do your authors keep pace?” Wycliff inquired.
“It’s a weekly, not a daily,” the editor said plainly. “If they can’t handle it, there are a hundred more waiting to replace them.”
“You don’t put much stock in your writers,” Wycliff remarked. One of those authors, perhaps, might feel underappreciated by this Knightly fellow. They might then feel motivated to betray him.
