by Maya Rodale
“Oh, Wycliff,” she said with a sigh.
Why did she have to lie and keep secrets? If she didn’t, they could have this. Always.
“Tell me,” he urged, still playing with her, to her pleasure. She grasped the fabric of his shirt hard in her palms. The little minx better hold on, for he had only just begun. God help him, though, he loved how it felt to have her hold onto him as though she was about to be swept away.
“He’s a mistake. A youthful mistake,” she told him, mumbling into his mouth as they kissed. Wycliff tugged at her skirts, inching the fabric up higher. With the tips of his fingers, he explored the soft flesh of her inner thighs, slowly, teasingly, temptingly inching higher and higher.
Eliza tilted her head back, eyes closed, lips parted in pleasure. Beautiful. He pressed his lips at the hollow of her throat.
With his fingertips, he gently caressed the bud of her sex. She moaned.
“Who is he?” Wycliff growled. His frustration was mounting. Seducing answers out of her had seemed a devilishly smart idea an hour ago, but now the worst sort of torment—unsatisfied curiosity and unsatisfied desire—was raining down on him, and he’d brought it upon himself.
She clenched hard on the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in her grasp as he nibbled and sucked at that lovely spot where her neck curved into the shoulder. Through their labored breathing the sound of tearing fabric was unmistakable. She ripped his shirt.
“Wycliff, I want you,” she whispered. The words hit his heart like daggers. He wanted so badly for them to be true. He thought they might be, but he knew she was keeping secrets from him. How could he trust her?
“I want to tell you everything,” she continued, her hands grasping at his shirt, pulling it open. The tables had turned.
In spite of himself, he grinned. But then his smile faded and his breath hitched as her hot little palms pressed against his bare chest. Oh so slowly she caressed the bare skin, lingering over his tattoos and playing with his nipples with just her fingertips. He hissed from the pleasure of it. His hands grabbed hard onto the desk behind him. It was either that or rip her dress off.
She pressed her sweet, pink little mouth to his naked chest.
No, it was not a bad idea at all.
English women made it harder to get them naked than Tahitian women, but he was a practiced bloke at such important life skills. Not that she made it easy. No, she writhed away from his attempts to separate her from her dress, even as her skirts were hitched up higher. He resumed that gentle caress, there, and she writhed against his hand.
Modesty? He could feel the intensity of her wanting.
Concern for her position? Ridiculous.
Again, his mouth claimed hers. She moaned and sighed like a woman in the throes of pleasure.
“Oh Wycliff, I . . .” Eliza began, but said nothing to him about stopping. He continued to tease her. Her breath was heavy now, and when he pressed his mouth to her throat for a kiss, he felt her pulse pounding and racing like mad.
“Tell me, Eliza,” he murmured low, like a command, as he again sought that sweet spot between her legs. She groaned, and tightened her grasp on his arms. She was feeling it, he knew. But she wouldn’t let him in. This was a dangerous game.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Tell me,” he urged her. He traced his fingertips along her inner thighs. She shuddered. He restrained himself from more, even though his cock was throbbing and he wanted nothing more than to bend her over the desk and bury himself inside her. But he also wanted to know her secrets—why, and who, and what the devil was going on—so he ignored his desire and concentrated on hers.
Eliza’s kiss turned hotter, stronger, and he liked it. He knew that she wanted him. Once more she moved against his hand, and he knew she was almost there. She was wet and wanting. His touch intensified and he slid one finger inside of her. Stopping was impossible now. Secrets be damned.
He felt her becoming more pliant, leaning against him a little more, softening her spine. His touch never let up. Little sighs turned into a loud cry of pleasure and he felt her tighten around him. He had brought her to the brink, and then over the edge.
Wycliff pulled back to gaze at this luscious female in his arms. A pink flush colored her cheeks, and her lips were parted so slightly. She was so beautiful, like that, in the throes of pleasure.
“Tell me, Eliza,” he urged.
“Oh . . .” she gasped. She slipped her fingers into his hair and pulled him to her once more.
“Eliza . . .” He murmured her name, kissed her mouth, and kissed her hard, with a staggering amount of passion, in search of answers, but reveling in the pursuit of them. He tasted her secrets, felt her reticence, knew that she ached for this and was inches away from abandon. He could feel it all.
And then she wrenched away and said the thing he least expected.
“I am married.”
Chapter 35
In Which There Are Answers
“Married?” Wycliff echoed. Eliza watched the color drain from his face. Very well, hers was likely pink enough for them both. That pleasure . . .
. . . she’d never known it before. Not even with her—shudder—husband. Yes, she had married, once upon a time and long, long ago.
There, she had said it aloud. Those words kept tucked away all these years had finally slipped out. That secret of hers that not even her fellow Writing Girls knew was now known—by the Duke of Wycliff, of all the people in the world.
Married.
Very well, the words didn’t slip out. She said them deliberately so that he might know why their passion could go no further. Lord above, if she hadn’t said those words—or if they hadn’t been true—she would have been on her back on his bed, a very satiated woman. Or bent over the desk. Either way, she would have made loud, long love to the duke and they would have liked it.
As it was, she’d already been swept away by his touch. Lud, her heart was still pounding. Her limbs felt positively liquid. She wanted to curl up against him and drift off, surrounded by his strong tattooed arms.
Since that was not to be—and here she heaved a most woeful sigh—she confessed to the marriage. She’d rather explain about the marriage than reveal herself as the author of all his misery.
Which he probably already knew about, anyway.
“Married.” He said it again.
“In a way. It’s rather complicated. Or perhaps it is not, but nevertheless—”
“You are married,” he said flatly. A drink was apparently in order. He stalked to the other side of the room and poured a generous amount. He took a sip and stood there a moment, thoughtful.
“Yes,” she said. She had taken a vow before God to love, cherish, honor, and obey. And she had done none of those things, but neither had her husband. It was a youthful mistake, and she had been fine pretending it never happened.
Until Wycliff. Until she met a man she could love. Until she went and fell in love with that man.
And as much as she neglected those vows over the years—as Liam had too, she felt entitled to add—she couldn’t toss them away now. The funny thing was, she cared more about the duke’s feelings than Liam’s.
“Married. To whom?” Wycliff asked, turning to face her.
“Mr. Liam Fielding. A mean man if there ever was one.”
Wycliff poured another drink, this one for her.
“I really ought to see to the evening chores,” she said evasively.
“As your lord and master, I relieve you of those duties for this evening.”
“You’re too kind,” she replied, inching toward the door. It was a strange battle within her—wanting to be in his embrace, yet desperate to leave to avoid this conversation.
“I’m curious, more to the point,” he answered, stepping between her and the door.
“What would you like to know?” she asked. She did owe him the truth. It was just hard for her to say it.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning? I suspect this
story might begin in Brighton.”
“You listen. A marvelous trait in a man,” she remarked. “Yes, this story begins in Brighton, seven years ago. I was visiting with my parents; they were putting on a play for Prinny. Liam was performing in the play. It was one of those whirlwind romances, and youthful idiocy. I was seduced. We were married. I quickly regretted it. We parted ways.” She added a little shrug, as if to say, That’s all, nothing to see here.
“There must be more than that.”
“I thought I might travel with him—he was in a troupe of traveling players—and see the world, or at least England. Instead he expected me to stay in London where he would visit from time to time. Our different expectations of the marriage were quickly apparent. We fought. He did not hit me, but I knew it was only a matter of time. One afternoon he went out for a pint, taking all of my money, and until the other week I hadn’t heard a word from him.”
Unspoken: she, too, wished to see the wide, wide world. And she had married for all the wrong reasons. Liam was an escape ticket, a hot fleeting young passion. It hadn’t been companionship or real love.
“Any children?” Wycliff asked with a lift of his brow, trying to make light of it. But she knew the hows and the whys and the intensity of that question for him.
“None whatsoever,” she assured him.
“And he is the one who attacked you?”
“Yes,” Eliza said, holding his gaze. The fire snapped on the far side of the room. A gentle rain lashed at the windows. The duke sipped his brandy, and oh, how she wished to, but she needed her wits about her.
“Why?”
Because I’m worth ten thousand pounds in some stupid wager.
“I’m not quite certain. We didn’t exactly converse,” she said instead.
“And what is your plan for dealing with this situation?” Wycliff went over to the desk and began to light candles. Darkness had fallen.
Eliza laughed. “I thought that I might hide, ignore it, and hope it goes away.”
“Brilliant strategy,” he said dryly, and something flared within her—irritation, she supposed. With herself. Wycliff plotted and planned. But he wasn’t a lone female being stalked all over London. Then again, he’d probably faced worse and defended himself far better than she had.
“What am I supposed to do? Venture all over London in search of Liam?” she asked hotly. “And then what?”
“Why not?”
“Aye. But what if I don’t want to find him?” And there it was, the truth. She merely wished to be free of him, though she certainly did not wish him dead. Until recently everything was fine because it’d been easy to pretend it had never happened. Yet, now with Liam on her trail, she couldn’t forget.
Every time the duke kissed her, she could not forget that it was so wrong, even though it felt so very right. Though she wanted to give herself to him completely, she belonged to a loathsome man who didn’t even want her.
Chapter 36
Another Edition of “The Tattooed Duke”
Married. It wasn’t the secret he expected her to confess. He thought she might reveal what she didn’t know he knew: that she was the author of “The Tattooed Duke.”
Married? He had not expected that.
Harlan had questioned the man, who shared no information of any interest whatsoever. He’d given a false name—Wycliff knew as much now. And then within hours he got away. Wycliff believed Eliza when she said he’d gone off and she didn’t keep track of his whereabouts. Why would she want to? He didn’t make it easy, and he wasn’t exactly desirable company.
Once, he had seen a native tribe rip the still beating heart out of a downed gazelle in Africa. He felt a deep sympathy—nay, empathy—with that little animal. First, the stunning blow of the spear piecing his skin and taking him down—that was the discovery of Eliza’s secret writing career. And then to learn that this beguiling, mysterious, dangerous woman he’d fallen for was married . . . to learn that he could never make her his . . . which he shouldn’t want to do anyway, given her deceitful ways . . .
The heart wants what the heart wants, even if it’s been ripped out of one’s chest, still beating hard in the hand of a warrior.
He had not slept. Obviously.
The household was out of brandy.
And it was Saturday, which meant another edition of that damnable newspaper, The London Weekly.
Only Harlan joined him for breakfast this morning; Burke knew better, and Basil was likely experiencing the aftereffects of excessive alcohol consumption from some ton soiree.
Eliza calmly served them, quietly pouring coffee and tea as needed.
She might not warm his bed because of those damned wedding vows, but she could unwittingly relate information he’d like all of London to know. Thanks to Alvanley’s offer, she could be worth a fortune to him. Thus, she would stay on as housemaid for a few more days.
It was decided.
Even if it tortured him to have her so temptingly close.
Wycliff caught Harlan eyeing him, and then Eliza, looking for evidence of those ties he had mentioned.
He lifted this week’s freshly ironed edition of The London Weekly. Just to vex his company, he took his good old time reading the article on the first page, something endlessly dull about Parliament. Then he discovered a deep interest in the latest foreign intelligence. Oh, and then, there it was—“The Tattooed Duke.”
It wasn’t entirely an act when he heaved a sigh and began to read quietly to himself. He knew what it would say, for he had read the handwritten version stuffed in Eliza’s bodice. But then it didn’t say what he expected.
Not at all.
This one was different.
Happy Dukes are all alike; every unhappy Duke is unhappy in his own way. We know that all the Wycliff dukes have been scandalous in their own, rakish way, and we know that none have managed the unique, strange scandal of the current duke’s bizarre, foreign proclivities. Adventure seems to follow the duke no matter where he goes, be it in Turkey or Fleet Street. He was seen Wednesday last emerging from St. Bride’s Lane with the limp form of a female, helpless and unconscious in his arms. Had she been ravished? Murdered? What has become of her?
The duke’s partner in crime revealed that the sling he wore was naught but a disguise. When the time came to pull a battered man from that same alley, both of the partner’s arms were in good working order. The battered man had been bound and gagged. Sources suggest he’s kept captive in the basement dungeon of Wycliff House, tied in chains, and tortured daily with strange implements the duke procured on his travels.
The Tattooed Duke’s activities have taken a darker, violent turn. Perhaps among the lawless tribes of his travels this is how it’s done. But the duke ought well remember this is England, where women’s virtue is protected, the courts protect even the criminals, and dukes frequent clubs and ballrooms, not the underbelly of London.
When Wycliff allowed himself to lift his eyes from the page and look across the room at Eliza, it took everything in him not to roar, or to hurl the coffeepot in her direction. This one had gone too damn far.
This was such a stunning reversal from the version she had penned, the one he had discovered. She must have written it after he had saved her, cared for her, let her sleep in his bed. After he stayed up all hours by her bedside, helplessly clasping her hand so that on some level she might not feel so alone.
Later, he would consider the effects of this on his heart, but for the moment he could feel it hardening in his chest. With great care he began to rip the paper apart in neat methodical shreds of long strips.
“Oi, I didn’t get to read it yet,” Harlan protested, “and it seems especially interesting this morning.”
Wycliff looked meanly at him as he ripped those strips again, into neat little squares of confetti. And then he scattered those bits of paper like poisoned petals in the wind.
“See to that mess,” he told Eliza as he stalked out of the dining room. She had gone pale.
He didn’t care.
Chapter 37
In Which There Is Treachery
Later that afternoon Eliza pleaded illness and retired to her attic bedroom, where she painstakingly reassembled the torn pieces of The London Weekly until the awful truth emerged. This version of “The Tattooed Duke” was not one she had written.
“Knightly.” She said his name like a curse.
Given her accident, she’d been unable to revise the nice, noble depiction of the duke. Given Knightly’s ruthless quest for more sales, more profits, more renown, he had clearly written what he wanted for his paper—never mind what this might to do to her, or the duke, or anything like the love that might have once existed between them.
Eliza thought of that look he gave her this morning after he had read this. She had felt it like a hot knife to her heart.
Did he know?
He must think that she wrote this. But how could she declare her innocence without admitting that she had written all the others, just as damaging?
“Knightly.” Again she spat out the name. The lengths she had gone to in order to please him! Giving up her days and nights for this story, giving up her heart for it! And it wasn’t enough. He had to go and write it himself.
So he thought he didn’t need her, did he?
A gentle gust of wind blew through her open bedroom window, scattering The Weekly bits all over her room. One little scrap tripped on the wind and settled in her lap.
The Earl of Alvanley still has no takers on his offer to unmask W.G. Meadows for the princely sum of ten thousand pounds.
Chapter 38
Confrontation
Eliza found Knightly exactly where she suspected she would: at his desk, in his Fleet Street office. Did the man ever go home?
His head snapped up in surprise when she entered and proceeded to scatter one handful and then another of the shredded issue of The London Weekly over his desk. The little gray scraps floated down onto the desktop like paper snowflakes.
