“His coachman ‘Your Graced’ him up and down. Then he got out at the gentleman’s club, right where you thought he’d go. That was the Duke of Ainsworth,” Mrs. Mason reiterated.
Reviewing events for the umpteenth time, Prudence continued to fret, “Just once I stand up for myself…and before I know it, I’ve marked an innocent man with a permanent joke. Worse, I assaulted a peer of the realm.”
“You always intended to, Miss H.,” Mrs. Mason reminded her. “You’ve been giving yourself spasms about that randy duke for years. What’s done is done.”
“But that wasn’t the randy duke,” Prudence said. “I’ll hang for this.”
“Don’t be daft, Miss H. They won’t hang you. More likely transport a lady like you to New South Wales,” Murphy comforted ineffectually.
Mrs. Mason added, “How’s he ever to know who did it? It being so random and mistaken after all.”
“No harm done, just a bit of a lark. It’ll look, er, festive when it stops oozing and all those blackish-purple bruises fade,” Murphy consoled, unaware that his consolations were making his employer hyperventilate.
Prudence wanted to believe there was no way to find them out. She knew, however, that in a moment of guilty distraction she had tucked all he needed to hunt her down in his coat pocket. Still, there was hope. In all likelihood, the duke’s butler found the little jar and threw it away unbeknownst to the duke.
Chapter 3
In which our hero has repeated cause to curse the perpetrators of his tattoo.
Ainsworth would liefer be trampled again than put in an appearance at Almack’s Assembly Rooms even with the Season concluding. By now, the ton would have thinned to a manageable crush. Still, a week after That Night, he felt not the least bit sociable. Randy, yes. Sociable, no.
His Grace preferred to conduct his private life (i.e. his amorous assignations) well away from the prying eyes of Society. Indeed, he hoped to conduct almost all of his life far from Society’s scrutiny till he shopped around in earnest for a proper wife and married the chit at St. George’s, Hanover Square.
It seemed, however, his every move was now subject to relentless comment in the press. Even innocuous walks in the park occasioned near-hysterical hyperbole. Be that as it may, he took his motley pack of mongrels to Hyde Park daily. Generally they minded their manners. They stayed close at heel as Ainsworth crossed Park Lane and strode through Grosvenor Gate. Once inside, all but Attila took off barking in a tumble of legs and tails, foaming at the mouths with the scent of some squirrel. Having arrived well before the fashionable hour, Ainsworth let them run pell-mell like happy, rabid lunatics till they exhausted themselves. Their exhaustion out of doors also kept his staff happy. Thatcher frequently remarked the animals were only well behaved when asleep.
Attila was the exception. He was always well behaved. The dog appointed himself ducal bodyguard upon taking up residence at Ainsworth House shortly after His Grace’s return from war. He alone remained at heel despite the temptations of pigeons, horses and yappy, bite-sized dogs. Ainsworth suspected Attila was a mastiff crossed with gargoyle and ox. His huge, square head had pronounced cheek muscles. His calm, tawny eyes matched his tawny, brindled coat. Placid by nature, he had the devil’s own grin when relaxed and content. His muscular shoulders sat squarely over thick forelimbs on each side of a broad, deep chest. The former bearbaiting dog walked with ecclesiastical dignity, fixing all comers with a gimlet eye. In response, nannies snatched away tots and equestrians made wide detours around the 14 stone 1 brute and his master.
The dogs came into the ducal household by way of the stable master’s young son. The tenderhearted boy discovered Attila injured and starving behind the stable. He brought the dog into the stable yard using only string for a leash and, after his father flatly refused to house the creature in an empty stall, the lad appealed directly to His Grace with soft, worshipful eyes as the duke was inspecting a new hack. What could Ainsworth do? Despite the stableman’s embarrassed protests ‘not to mind the little rascal,’ the duke decreed the place needed a dog or two.
To date there were four. And they had moved into the house.
Much to the delight of his rambunctious canines, the duke followed a sparsely populated footpath near the Serpentine. The new one, Puck, took a running leap into its turbid waters. Apparently, he had a sporting breed among the many contributors to his mixed-lot parentage.
Upon returning home, the damp dogs tumbled through the front door, paused to shake themselves off by Thatcher and churned down to the kitchen where they would shamelessly wheedle treats from Cook. Even Attila took part in this mayhem as he was now off duty, having seen the duke safely home.
In a lighter mood, Ainsworth confronted his social obligations, specifically Almack’s. He dreaded receiving condolences for his brother and mother as much as felicitations on his elevation to the title. He was still much too raw. Not knowing how to express what he felt left the duke even more taciturn than usual.
He was in no mood to be pitchforked into Society but Lady Jersey gave him no choice.
The Countess of Jersey sent a note with a voucher shortly after his quiet return to London. (His over-solicitous sister probably wrote to her out of concern.) Nicknamed ‘Silence’ for her tendency to talk nonstop, Lady Jersey was an Almack’s patroness and dear friend to his late mother. Ainsworth knew he must marry at some point. He also knew full well Almack’s would be his hunting ground. So, when Silence beckoned, he obeyed.
The Duke of Ainsworth slipped through one of the Palladian archways of Almack’s entrance moments before 11 o’clock when the doors were barred to further admittance. He intended to slip away after Lady Jersey had an opportunity to harangue him about his duty to family and title. She would urge him to look about the rooms at the leftover, virginal ladies of noble birth as if he were having a look in at Tattersall’s. Someday, he would settle on someone but not yet, by God. Not yet. He allotted Silence half an hour to have her say.
Ainsworth greatly underestimated the stir he would cause upon entering. As an eligible bachelor, moreover a wealthy duke and a celebrated war hero, admirers and well-wishers besieged him. He bowed and feinted as best he could to avoid ambitious mamas without causing offense.
Skirting the ballroom, he espied Lady Jersey tête à tête with a delectable, raven-haired woman. The lady was short, well endowed and, as he soon discovered, an outrageously flirtatious widow recently out of mourning.
Ainsworth approached and invited an introduction, “Lady Jersey, would you be so kind?”
“Ainsworth, this is Lady Comstock,” Lady Jersey complied. “Lady Comstock, may I present the Duke of Ainsworth. I have known him since he was a shy, little boy mucking around in the bushes dodging the neighbor girls trailing after him. Ainsworth was always such a winning thing, as handsome then as now, but much smaller, of course. He was tiny compared to his bulksome self now. Look at him, so tall! I shall have a crick in my neck just trying to speak to him! We anticipated nothing but romantic devastation in his wake, his dear mother and I…”
Ainsworth cleared his throat softly.
Lady Jersey recalled herself and turned from Lady Comstock to the duke with a wink, “Ainsworth, Lady Comstock is only just out of widow’s weeds. She’s not the least likely to be devastated by you. And she knows everyone so have a care.”
“La!” Lady Comstock trilled, “What would you have His Grace think of me?”
Uncharacteristically, Lady Jersey refrained from answering, though an eloquent eyebrow arched upward. She was soon whisked away by Lady Cowper, another of Almack’s doyennes.
“I have read all about your heroics, Your Grace. One of the ‘Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ were you not? Surely, the Times exaggerated your bloodthirsty exploits!” Lady Comstock laughed merrily.
When the widow laughed, which she did readily, her voluptuous breasts rose like bread dough almost out of her gown’s meager restraints. Not that Ainsworth objected.
“La
! Now that I meet you in the flesh,” she enunciated coquettishly, “I’m a trifle intimidated. You’re such a large man. But have no fear, I’m sure to adjust quickly.” She laughed again and tapped his forearm with her closed fan.
Ainsworth gave thanks to the Supreme Being for this chance to make merry with what was clearly a very merry widow. His recuperation to date had been almost completely chaste and he found himself wound very tight.
Not much was said between them after their initial conversation. Not much was required, to Ainsworth’s relief. Lady Comstock mentioned wishing to leave; he offered to escort her to her carriage. They escaped the crush and reached the building’s entrance where he called for her barouche. How quickly, the duke wondered, could he lure the little morsel to bed? His mind raced with strategies. It might take a few days, perhaps weeks, to consummate the liaison. Her carriage arrived. As he bowed and brushed her gloved fingers with his lips, she whispered her direction. He blinked down at her. She smiled up and licked her lips.
Oh, as soon as that?
Soon after, Lady Comstock was about to enter her home when the duke’s carriage drew up. She dismissed the footman and paused in the doorway to await him. He leapt down and quietly bade his coachman remain at a discreet distance for his return.
‘La Comstock’ swept him inside, drew him up the curved staircase and into her bedchamber. She seemed as intent on bedding him as he was on bedding her. Her hunger for him was enormously gratifying and his arbor vitae responded in direct proportion to his gratification.
They disrobed in near frenzy. He unhooked her gown and she wriggled it over her hips. She untied his white cravat and flung it away. She pushed his cutaway coat from his shoulders none too gently. He winced. Despite the pain, he loosened her short stays and she tossed it off to join her gown. She tore the pins from her hair and let it tumble down her back as her petticoat fell away. His waistcoat opened under her eager, busy fingers. He tugged off his linen shirt, ignoring another rasp of pain.
The widow approached him in the candlelight wearing only a transparent chemise and his mind fogged with lust. Strangely, though, his vision blurred for a moment and he beheld another woman’s face, with stormy eyes and petal soft, full lips whispering an apology, as her cool, steady hands reached for him…
Just as the black-haired widow reached for the bulging falls of Ainsworth’s silk knee breeches, his head cleared. He recalled the ridiculous tattoo in time to snatch up her wrists.
“A moment,” he said smoothly.
How dare the little, tattoo-happy harpy haunt him at a time like this!
He turned his mind to his immediate concern. He knew not to let ‘La Comstock’ see his ludicrous tattoo. If Lady Jersey’s hints were any indication, the coquette would likely share such an entertaining revelation with everyone in her acquaintance. By tomorrow evening, he’d be the laughingstock of the ton.
Though it meant denying himself the sight of her bouncing, blissful release, the duke put the lady to bed and doused all the candles before stripping off the rest of his clothes. When he joined her, he pulled the bed curtains tightly closed to block even the dim hint of moonlight through the window. No one, especially this indiscreet widow, would see the unfortunate embellishment. No one but his future wife would ever glimpse that bloody ridiculous decoration, and then, only if he was certain she could be trusted.
For this, too, the perpetrators of his blasted tattoo would pay.
In pitch dark, Ainsworth tantalized the widow’s other senses. His shoulder injury made positioning himself on her impossible. He couldn’t hold himself up and was too much a gentleman to crush her under his weight. So he lay on his back and drew her over him to straddle his hips. There, he teased her tight nipples with a lock of her own hair arousing her at his leisure. With his long fingers and broad, warm palms, he stroked her from neck to shoulders to breasts and belly, over her hips and down her thighs. She purred and arched her body into his languid caresses. He drew her down to him and suckled each tender peak till she quivered between his lips. She ground her warm, wet sex against the great ridge of his erection and he answered her moans with a low growl.
Breathlessly, she begged him to take her, take her! In answer, his cock throbbed, growing more engorged, more demanding. But he would not do so just yet. He knew exactly what to do and did it with military precision, if not passion. He urged her body higher on his chest and held her against his lips. Her sex, musky with arousal, was ambrosia to a man denied so long. With a wicked tongue he dipped into her folds and teased her till she bucked against him, pressing for more. She begged and wriggled as he settled in to lap at her till her body gathered, tensed and climaxed spectacularly.
Only then, as she leaned back against his knees, panting, did he lift her hips and slide her onto his aching shaft to find his own release. He flexed his hips to drive into her with deep, sure thrusts.
With her legs straddling his hips, she goaded him, “Faster, faster!” She burst out, “Oh Lord, yes! Please! Yes! I could ride you forever, my stallion!”
It was, he grimaced, a bit distracting that ‘stallion’ business. Flattering, perhaps, but really. He thrust hard a few more times and withdrew for a gentleman’s finish in the sheets.
That was…very…nice. Pleasant, he thought. He lay still for a moment, strangely dispirited. Something was missing though he couldn’t articulate the shortfall. Or was it someone? Life had become too damned complicated if he couldn’t enjoy a good tupping and be satisfied with it.
”Forgive me,” the little virago murmured to him That Night, her unquiet eyes never leaving his.
Damn her eyes. Rolling to the edge of the bed, Ainsworth passed through the curtains to stand. With his back to the widow, he slipped his smalls over trim hips, then his silk knee breeches and gathered up the rest of his clothes from hither and yon.
As he dressed, Lady Comstock opened the bed curtains to peek at him in the dimness of the room. “Oh!” She exclaimed involuntarily, “Your scars! You’ve had a hard war, Your Grace.”
“Many had a harder war, madam.”
“Well, you needn’t feel self-conscious with me,” she purred. “Though your wounds are ghastly, there’s no need to hide in the dark.”
“I thought they might distract you from your pleasure,” he said.
“Hardly!” She sighed, “You were magnificent. Utterly magnificent. What a glorious ride!” She laughed again.
“It was my pleasure, Lady Comstock.”
Despite his formality, she still hoped for another encounter and so said, “À bientôt, Your Grace.”
“Adieu, my lady,” he corrected gently and kissed the hand she extended.
When he returned to Ainsworth House, his butler promptly opened the door.
“No need to wait for me, Thatcher. I would’ve mentioned it had I known I’d be late,” Ainsworth said with a quirk of his lips. “Something came up.”
“A fine thing, something coming up,” Thatcher mirrored his grin.
“You’re smiling, Thatcher.”
Thatcher’s smile vanished. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”
“No, no. I only meant… That is to say, I don’t like the usual formalities. It suited my brother better,” Ainsworth said and patted Thatcher’s shoulder above the stump in a comradely gesture. “I meant no reproach.”
Thatcher’s smile returned.
“We must adapt, Your Grace,” the butler said. “The army won’t have us back. It’s just the way of things.”
“Still, I wish…” Ainsworth let his unfinished thought hang in the air. He rummaged in his pocket for the squat glass jar then let Thatcher remove the coat. With a crisp bow, Thatcher silently disappeared down the dark hallway, the duke’s coat in hand.
Ainsworth twisted off the jar’s metal lid and inhaled the scent yet again. Suddenly, he recalled more of his hellish glimpse of the after life. For on That Night, he thought he’d finally stuck his spoon in the wall and gone to hell.
His educat
ion in the classics notwithstanding, one was actually conveyed to the underworld by common cart through the smudgy fog of London. No ferry boat. No River Styx. No ferryman Charon. His neoclassical escorts were a buxom woman with managing hands and a burly, mustachioed bald man.
That Night, his eyelids were weighted with lead. His mouth was arid. His tongue had become a thick wad of cotton wool. He felt surprisingly clear-headed despite the fogginess of his senses. Painless but all-consuming lethargy gripped his body even as his mind raced in circles. It was nothing like his near death at Waterloo.
Life flashed before his eyes That Night — none of the jolly parts, mind, only the moments that occasioned regret. This further convinced him he was dying.
Foremost among his regrets was failing his family as the last of the direct Maubrey line. Through years of war, when dying as a second son would’ve only meant grief for his family, he took ridiculous risks, swaggered through close calls and laughed them off to do it again. His mother and sister begged him to have a care. What was the point of caution? He and his friends were invincible, or so they thought, and expendable if they were mistaken.
While he recklessly tempted death, however, his loved ones fell to the reaper one after another. His father died peacefully, comforted by having two healthy sons and his duchess’ promise to hold Phillip’s son and heir in her arms before she passed. Then in a blink, Phillip died needlessly, without issue. The duchess relocated to Brussels with his sister only a few months before she had to search for her surviving son in the carnage of battle. Finding him wounded and trampled shortened her lifespan by years. Within a matter of weeks, his mother fell to fever herself, exhausted by her frantic efforts to save his life.
Ainsworth’s last coherent thought That Night was how bloody irresponsible he was to have survived Waterloo only to die in inexplicable circumstances after a brandy or two at White’s.
But once again, the duke’s luck held. A maid discovered him in his garden. He found himself miraculously back among the living. Given a second divine reprieve, he solemnly resolved to do his duty to the title henceforth.
The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order Page 3
