by Maya Rodale
“I’d like to be sharing something else. Your bed.” he said softly, and heat suffused her cheeks. She could feel his desire, but to hear it aloud was another thing entirely. And the thing was: she felt the same. Wildly, wantonly, up all night, distracted all day—she felt the same. She wanted him in her bed like she wanted a column of her own in The London Weekly.
But it could never be. Never.
“My bed is a tiny, narrow cot in the attic,” she replied, being deliberately obtuse. “Sharing it would be deuced uncomfortable.”
“Very well, we’ll share mine. It’s one thing I did miss while abroad. After a certain age, sleeping on the ground begins to lose its appeal and one wishes for a large feather mattress.”
The duke drank from the bottle and entwined his fingers with hers. She thought of his taut, muscled, tattooed body hot and hard against hers in his massive feather bed, and she felt things in places she’d never really felt before.
“Lady Shackley—” he began. And then stopped. “No, I don’t want to think about it anymore.”
Eliza turned to him, her face just inches from his. “Then do not think of it, Wycliff.”
And then his mouth closed upon hers.
We shouldn’t, she thought. But nagging thoughts were nothing compared to the exquisite sensation of being claimed by Wycliff. He cradled the nape of her neck with his hand, slid his fingers into her hair which she was dimly aware of tumbling down around her shoulders.
I want to. That’s what her heart said. Her every nerve, which was on high alert. Every inch awaited his touch. Eliza gave into this kiss without a fight. Her mouth loved his in return. She kissed him because she wanted to, because she couldn’t resist, because she was falling for him, and because . . .
While she was desperately curious about whatever Lady Shackley had done to trouble him so, she did not want him to tell her. Knowledge was dangerous, and he made the mistake of trusting her.
If his mouth was otherwise occupied, he could not tell her and she could not betray him.
It was the lesser of two evils.
And she wanted to kiss the duke. Wycliff. Sebastian. She needed to, like she needed air to breathe.
So she kissed for all those reasons, even though she knew she shouldn’t. Those really good reasons to restrain herself rudely intruded on this kiss, but she had become remarkably adept at ignoring them. So she did.
Her heart thudded in her chest—like a warning of danger. This was the way to trouble. And yet kissing the duke felt so unbelievably good, and right, and a million other lovely things jumbled together all adding up to pleasure. He tasted like wine, like wanting. It wrenched at her heart, that wanting, because she didn’t think anyone had ever wanted her so much that she could taste it.
Tears stung at her eyes, shut tight. Eliza slipped her fingers through the locks of his hair, urging him closer to her so he could not see how this kiss affected her.
Sebastian cradled her face in his strong hands and urged her to open to him. His tongue tangled and sparred with hers for a deliciously wanton kiss. That desire she tasted? She felt it, too, now.
Liar, her conscience whispered at her. She was deceiving him with her every breath, except for this kiss. Her passion was real, her desire true. In another world, veils of deception wouldn’t hang between them.
And then there was that business about her heart beating hard, sending waves of warmth coursing through her. She might be falling for him.
She was definitely falling for him.
He tugged her into his lap, straddling him. Her skirts hitched up around her waist and the duke took full advantage.
Wicked Wycliffs, indeed. She laughed gently into his kiss, and felt his grin against her lips. That was intimacy. That was a beautiful thing. That was a moment that would always be theirs alone.
The sunset was now little more than a simmering glow, swiftly fading to darkness. The night air was cool on her heated, bare skin. His shirt, already open, came off. Once again she was able to indulge in his exotic tattoos.
All of London knew about his tattoos, but she was the only one to touch them, to know them so intimately. It was a gift she would keep locked up close and treasure forever. She traced her fingertips over the inky lines and the ridges of his chest. His skin was smooth, and hot to the touch. A wicked smile played on her lips.
Pent-up desire was a dangerous thing, Wycliff thought vaguely, and Eliza’s touch just unlocked the gate. He could not get enough, and greedy man that he was, he grasped at her hair, tugging gently. She moaned softly.
He needed her close, closer. He really wanted to bury himself deep inside of her. For the moment, he forced himself to be content with learning the contours of her body: the dip in her lower back, the curve of her bottom, which he’d been ogling for weeks now. Her full breasts fit so perfectly in his hands, it seemed criminal to let go.
He’d been ages without a woman, thanks to that long sea voyage, and he realized now he hadn’t spent much time in the brothels since returning to London. He hadn’t given much thought to any woman at all, other than Eliza. This stunned him, made his breath hitch.
It had been a lifetime since he was with a woman like her, his mysterious confidante with the soulful, wicked kiss. He had the feeling that he couldn’t get enough. Like he’d been held underwater too long and had to have air or die. Like he had to have Eliza, in every earthly sensual way, or he would die.
Time passed. Night had fallen. And he wasn’t aware of it happening, but it did: he was lying on his back on the roof, looking up at Eliza straddled above him and the moon and few paltry stars behind her.
His cock was hard, throbbing with wanting, and Eliza, tempting minx, moved slowly against him. He groaned.
“I do believe I was saying something about a feather bed . . .” he said. He could see it now—could feel it now—Eliza, a feather mattress, and himself.
“My bed is closer,” she murmured wickedly. And then she drew back. “My goodness, that was unbelievably forward of me.”
Her dark hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Her lips were red from his kiss—that’s how a woman’s mouth should look, he thought, not like Althea’s painted lips. That thought jolted him back . . .
“Eliza, you may have noticed I’m not exactly a stickler for propriety,” he replied with a faint grin.
“I may have heard a rumor to that effect,” she answered cheekily.
“But I have to marry Lady Shackley.”
Chapter 28
Why the Duke Must Marry Hades’ Own Harpy
Still on the roof
There, he said it. At the worst possible moment, too. In fact, the last possible moment before he totally and completely lived up to his Wicked Wycliff heritage and ravished the maid on the roof, for God’s sake.
He had now given voice to that awful thing that had been nagging him all night and all day. If he thought he was reluctant to assume the responsibilities of his title, well, now he knew a dig-in-the-heels, lean-back-with-every-inch-of-force-he-could-harness kind of reluctance. Because it wasn’t a duke’s duty that was calling for him now. He ought to do what a man ought to do.
He might be tattooed, and all kinds of scandalous, but he was a good man. He knew what mattered, what was right.
Sailors told stories of waves one hundred feet high that simply swallowed ships whole. How anyone lived to tell after witnessing such a feat was never answered, but Wycliff had known of ships that just vanished. That was how he felt upon hearing Althea’s news that could not be committed to paper.
“Is it for the money?” Eliza asked.
“It’s not about the money, although that will be a great consolation,” he said. The only consolation.
“Oh,” she said softly.
“I have referred to Althea as Hades’ Own Harpy and a hundred other awful things that are all true,” he said, referring to the breakfast conversation that he knew she had listened to avidly. “But one cannot say such things about the mother of their ch
ild.”
If Eliza felt anything upon that revelation, she did not show it. Well, other than the way her hand wavered as she took a sip of wine. He took some satisfaction in that. He didn’t want to be the only one walloped by the news. And he wanted some indication that she cared for him—although what the devil he could do with her affection, he knew not.
As she coolly and calmly absorbed the news and drank her wine, he relived the moment in Lady Althea’s drawing room when the earth shook everything off balance, the heavens opened up to rain down curses, and life as he’d known it came to a grinding, screeching halt.
Lady Althea had smiled so warmly with her fiery red mouth.
“A baby, Wycliff. Your baby.” He couldn’t breathe.
“Where is it?” he asked. He looked around stupidly, as if it might be tucked in a corner somewhere. But by now it wouldn’t be a baby, but a small brat of ten years.
“He. He is away at boarding school,” she said, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her silk skirts.
“Send for him at once,” he had said in the clipped tones of an angry duke. He wanted to see this child that was supposedly his. Not that he could do anything about it, for it would have the Shackley name.
His child. Another man’s name. How many Wycliff spawn were alive and kicking in England? Many more than the Digby family Bible recorded.
A child that was his but not his. Such a typical Wycliff thing to do, but had it burned and rankled the other dukes thus? He had scowled so violently even Althea was taken aback
“I cannot send for him now,” she said, recovering. “It’s in the middle of the school term and the headmaster is quite strict.”
“Then I’ll go to him,” Wycliff answered testily. He’d never bothered with the rules of headmasters before. Now wasn’t the time to start. “Apparently, I have a son, Althea. That means something.”
A son. The dukedom was this inanimate thing. A son—that was his own flesh and blood.
“You cannot go to him, you’ll embarrass him before his friends,” she said pleadingly, placing a hand on his arm. By God if that didn’t wallop him like a cannonball in the gut. He didn’t give a damn what other small-minded peers thought of his eccentricities, but he’d always sworn he would not mortify his children as his father had done to him.
He knew in that moment that he was not afraid of being the Duke of Wycliff, but being like every other duke who had preceded him: all the wastrels that embarrassed their children and squandered their lives and fortune. Unlike the others, he had learned a thing or two about the world, and a thing or two about duty, and a thing or two about himself.
“I’ll write to the headmaster at once, and have him sent back to London,” Althea said. She rubbed that gold, heart-shaped locket between her fingers. Opening it, closing it. He remembered now, why it was familiar. Once upon a time he had given it to her, complete with a lock of his hair. A silly thing, he thought, but she had asked him for it and it seemed easy enough to comply . . .
Althea still kept it. Althea still cared. Althea had been waiting. For him.
Yet he had taken the money from her husband, boarded a ship, and never looked back. He thought he had escaped. Apparently, he had not.
“Send word when the child arrives,” Wycliff said, his tone sharp.
“Fine,” Althea replied, pouting.
He showed himself out.
What the devil had happened? A child? He would have to marry her now. Yet, he felt a duty to do it. Responsibility. Mainly, though, he felt pity for the child. How could he leave a child to be raised by the likes of her? A pack of wolves would provide more maternal, affectionate care.
Why did his insides revolt at the notion of marriage? She had the money he needed. He could marry her and promptly leave on an expedition. And then another and another . . .
He should be relieved. Tremendously. But why did his chest feel so tight, like he couldn’t breathe, and sore, and like he’d been trampled by a team of oxen?
The entire situation was troubling and he did not know how to make sense of it. Hence, the brooding.
“A child?” Eliza echoed, and he was brought back from that damned scene, back to the present, where he was on the roof with a very disheveled maid perched upon his lap. One who he’d quite nearly ravished. She slowly untangled herself and her skirts.
“Don’t go,” he said. Commanded.
“I’m merely removing myself from your person,” she replied.
“Don’t go.” He said it again, employing the Ducal Voice so she wouldn’t know how he desperately wanted her company, especially tonight.
“You didn’t have to tell me,” she said, and she seemed almost annoyed that he had done so. As if she wanted a tumble with no strings, nothing serious, attached.
“I know. And yet I feel that I owe it to you,” he said, and she glanced away.
“Your Grace, I am only a housemaid. I wouldn’t be the first or the last to dally with my lord and master. I wouldn’t be so foolish as to think it means anything.”
“You needn’t be cruel,” he said. He didn’t know what it could mean, or what it might be. But he knew with utmost certainty that it wasn’t just some tumble.
“I am merely being practical,” Eliza told him, pushing back a lock of her hair.
“I’m not.” He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “I couldn’t make love to you without telling you. I feel something for you, Eliza.”
“You really shouldn’t,” she whispered, devastatingly.
“Too damned late for that,” he murmured, and lowered his mouth to hers. As if that last hour hadn’t happened, Eliza turned away.
Chapter 29
Inconvenient Truths
Wednesday
Days passed in which Wycliff existed in an extended state of tension. Althea. Eliza. Duty. Pleasure. England. The world. The wild, wicked recklessness of his Wycliff blood, or the cool, self-control of his mother’s family.
He’d spent days poring over maps of Timbuktu, as if to remind himself why he would not indulge in an affair with his maid, and why he must marry Lady Althea. Money for his expedition, for one thing. His duty to the child, for another.
A child. He couldn’t fathom it.
Frankly, he couldn’t keep his thoughts concentrated on any subject, unless the subject happened to be Eliza’s eyes, or her breasts, or her mouth, or what she might look like naked, how she might feel writhing in pleasure beneath him, the softness of her hair, the delicate sizzle when she gave him a wicked look, and the explosion when their lips touched.
Damn. His breeches were tight again.
No woman had ever preoccupied him so relentlessly and incessantly.
The good news: he had taken to reading the account book in order to cool his heated blood and restore himself to rights. Riveting stuff, that was. It read like a tale of lovesick idiocy. There were purchases of jewels and rents for rooms in fashionable (read: bloody expensive) neighborhoods, followed by a cease in the rent payment and the purchase of massive quantities of wine, brandy, and snuff.
So that’s where the Wycliff fortune had gone. It was some gaudy bobble around the neck of a whore. Or it was literally pissed and snorted away.
Any shame he might have felt about using ducal funds for an expedition to Timbuktu just evaporated. There were stupider, more useless things to fritter money away on than enriching experiences, scientific expeditions, or bold conquests for his country.
“Knock, knock, Your Graceship,” Harlan said as he strolled into the study, uninvited.
“I’m busy with account books,” Wycliff told him.
Harlan snorted and tossed a newspaper on the desk before sauntering off to pour a brandy for himself.
“Really, Harlan, more damned newspapers?”
“This town is awash in them. They all seem to be fixated upon Your Graceness, too. Oddly, I don’t find you nearly as interesting as they.”
“I don’t find myself that interesting either,” Wycliff muttered.
Dear God, he was becoming besotted. He had kept his wits about him while in a sinking rowboat traveling through crocodile-infested waters in an African river. But now he couldn’t manage a conversation on any subject without thinking of his housemaid.
Housemaid. Housemaid. Housemaid . . . whom he wished to ravish. Damn.
“You were saying, Harlan?”
“I was saying, read the sodding gossip column and then tell me what’s really happening.”
With an annoyed frown, Wycliff read the sodding gossip column, entitled “The Man About Town.”
All of London is humming over reports that the Tattooed Duke was seen calling upon Lady Shackley for an extended, private visit. Might they be discussing a new venture? Perhaps it is one in which Shackley money once again funds the wild wanderings of a Wycliff, as the mysterious W.G. Meadows reminds us. Or do they have a joint venture in the works, otherwise known as marriage?
Our best hope for the truth lies in W.G. Meadows, that unknown author of “The Tattooed Duke” in The Times’s rival newspaper that shall go unmentioned. But who knows who W.G. Meadows is? Lords and ladies alike are frothing at the bit to discover his or her true identity. The supremely wealthy Earl of Alvanley has offered the enormous sum of ten thousand pounds to the person who uncovers the true identity of W.G. Meadows. Dissolute rakes, debutantes with lamentable dowries, the poorly, the greedy, and dare we say the Tattooed Duke himself ought to leap at the opportunity.
My sympathies lie with W.G. Meadows, but this Man About Town is on the hunt.
“Oh for the love—” Wycliff muttered. Each day, the storm and drama surrounding him became more ridiculous.
“God, anything holy, etcetera, etcetera. You have assumed epic proportions,” Harlan said dryly, but then his voice turned earnest. “But what is the truth, and what are you going to do?”
