But how could he know?
Reason piped up that his scrutiny was nothing but an unfortunate coincidence. Most likely, he was looking daggers at a spinster simply for the crime of being on the shelf. If she so lacerated his finer, male feelings, he needn’t look at her at all! Or perhaps he was offended that she did not simper, moon, titter or coo over him as everyone else did. Whatever the cause, she would not be undone by a self-important, excessively entitled, offensively glaring peer’s disgust of her.
Even if he had every right to hate her, he couldn’t possibly know that, could he? She prepared herself to brazen it out, if only her combustible cheeks would cooperate.
• • •
Meeting his nemesis face to face made Ainsworth’s blood boil. He was coldly, fiercely furious with her; yet, he found himself increasingly unsettled. Even aroused. His boiling blood was pooling most inconveniently in his loins and causing an embarrassing disturbance down there. This made him more annoyed with her, though in fairness she couldn’t help her troublesome effect on him.
Here was the slight female who’d knelt before him and apologized for mocking him, no mistake about it. She’d apologized to him then, probably assuming he wouldn’t recall her admission — or her face — in the fullness of time. She badly miscalculated. He couldn’t forget her. For here in the flesh was the intrusive female he’d imagined having while in flagrante delicto with any number of others.
Damn her eyes.
Miss Haversham’s eyes were striking. He’d thought they were faded blue or gray. That had been his first impression as he stood over her. On closer inspection, he discovered her eyes were a stormy blue green, a shade of lovat. Neither faded nor bland. She kept peeping at him, while pretending to study her teaspoon and table linen. Ainsworth nearly laughed at the way his rude perusal distressed her.
Her eyes reminded him of the ocean, one color when calm, quite another when disturbed. She had, he mused, such telling eyes, not at all suited for gambling. And she was most certainly gambling at the moment. Little liar. Guilt was written in bright red on her face, also in her wary eyes and with every movement of her fidgety hands. Still, she flatly denied meeting him.
Today, her gown was prim to the point of dowdy, buttoned up to her neck. This prudishness piqued his curiosity. He’d seen only a hint of her bosom the previous night, from across the ballroom, but he knew at a glance she had a pleasing, if slight, figure. What little skin she revealed in the candlelight had been creamy smooth and mouthwatering. The intimation of nicely rounded curves set fire to his imagination in a way none of the daringly dressed ladies had. Women of the ton and their daughters routinely bared nearly all for all to see. Until last night, Ainsworth enjoyed such exhibitions. Now, he found reticence far more alluring. Why would this chit’s modesty make him so curious to see more? And make him itch to cradle every blessed inch of her in his palms?
He pried his mind away from that over-stimulating line of thought. Last night was neither here nor there, the duke reminded himself sternly. The author of his defacement was here and he would toy with her like a cat with a shrew.
Miss Haversham’s expression and her evasiveness confirmed her guilt though she wasn’t the complete harridan he expected. More surprising was the untoward effect she was still having on him, making him restless and his pantaloons uncomfortably snug. He watched with fascination as her thick, dark lashes swept down to shield her eyes from his scrutiny.
“Just so,” Lady Abingdon purred, enjoying herself immensely, “Just so. I thought you two might get on.”
The duke barked a harsh laugh. Miss Haversham nailed him with those extraordinary eyes, returning his rude inspection with a sharp, steely look of her own.
After the initial awkwardness, the two women chatted and the duke added a few words, watching and listening more than contributing to the conversation. Several tables away, Lady Abingdon spotted an acquaintance and abruptly excused herself to greet her friend.
Miss Haversham looked panic stricken. He enjoyed her struggles to maintain a flow of innocuous chatter with him and did nothing to help. Uncontroversial topics, such as the weather, the picturesque quality of Pulteney Bridge, the atrocious taste of the Pump Room’s mineral water, why newcomers must sign the Pump Room’s register and the officiousness of the Master of Ceremonies were soon exhausted. The duke shifted and winced.
“Does polite conversation pain you?” The shrew asked sharply.
“Usually not this much,” he retorted, enjoying the flash of annoyance in her eyes. How dare she scowl at him!
“If my rattling on irritates you, Your Grace, you must take your share of the blame,” she huffed.
“Must I?” Her effrontery stunned him. There she sat, his prissy, unapologetic tormentor, looking daggers at him. At the moment, her eyes were, he noted with grudging admiration, very striking. Why, if looks could kill, the Maubrey line would be struck dead and go extinct over a pot of Oolong tea. Brassy, little baggage! He rumbled, menace in his voice, “How am I to blame, Miss Haversham?”
“You’re a man of so few words, you’re practically mute.”
Ainsworth glared at her but could not silence her. As he opened his mouth to retort, Miss Haversham continued, “Do you set yourself a daily quota of words? Or do you dislike exchanging common pleasantries with a mere miss? Or, are you too dull to add anything entertaining to a conversation?”
He raised an eyebrow, paused and replied, “Yes.”
For three heartbeats, he watched her digest his response. Like a fuse burning to a powder keg, her eyes widened, her rosebud lips pursed and quivered. Finally, she burst out in merry laughter. “Oh! So, you are droll after all! I wouldn’t have thought it possible.” She bit her lip in just the way he would if given the opportunity and said, “I apologize for my impertinence but you must concede your silence is provoking.”
He merely tilted his head to acknowledge it. Her opinion of nobility was refreshing. Her throaty laughter and her dancing eyes threatened to stimulate him more, so he directed a quelling look at her.
“I said I apologize. Why look so forbidding?”
“Perhaps I prefer to remain enigmatic, Miss Haversham.”
“A sentence! Keep on like that, Your Grace, and you’ll exhaust your ration of conversation for the entire day.”
“I’ll risk it,” he replied and smiled despite himself.
“Well, if you’re going to be profligate, I’ll leave the next choice of topic to you.” She clasped her small hands in her lap, fixed him with a wide-eyed, expectant look and waited.
“Actually, I’ve no wish to be a mystery to you, Miss Haversham. Let’s discuss secrets, shall we?”
“I’d prefer not,” she demurred, blushing vividly.
“Ah. You enjoy being a mystery.”
Before she could respond, Lady Abingdon rejoined the two, now silent tea-drinkers. She looked from duke to goddaughter and said, “Well, what was that outburst? I must have my part of the joke.”
“I succeeded in making Miss Haversham laugh at me,” he said.
“Well, good. Someone must or your head will grow far too swelled. Is your shoulder still troubling you, Ainsworth? You’ve had a horrid, pinched look on your face this entire time,” Lady Abingdon said, adding in a moment of inspiration, “Prudence, would you examine the duke’s injury? It would be a kindness.”
“I-I would be honored,” she stammered, “but surely the duke has expert medical…”
“I am not in pain, Lady Abingdon, I assure you,” the duke averred. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing, Ainsworth? Poppycock! I’ve never seen you look so grim. Promise me you’ll let Miss Haversham help you, you must.”
Ainsworth remained noncommittal but later realized this offered the opportunity he required to pursue his purpose. He’d decamped to Bath with no set plan of attack. His only desire was to be present when Miss Haversham lost everything. He intended misfortune to rain down on her. When satisfied she’d suffered enough, he
would reveal its source.
Perhaps, he now allowed, he’d take a closer look before the deluge.
Chapter 12
In which our hero seeks a cure for his vexation from its source.
The following day, Attila accompanied the duke to the Trim Street Apothecary to terrorize the Haversham chit.
Trim Street was a quiet byway lined on both sides with cream-colored stone buildings. The Apothecary itself was tucked into the corner of a right angle turn the street took near Milsom. One of the shop’s windows bowed out like a turret, with dozens of curved glass panes in curved wood framing painted royal blue. The front door stood on the building’s narrow flat face, flanked by two tall sidelights. Flower boxes beneath the bow window erupted in a riot of pansies.
He sauntered into the shop. Miss Haversham glanced up from behind the paneled counter and quickly looked away flustered. A good start, this. He waited, petting Attila’s head, as she finished with a client at the counter.
Ainsworth scanned the tidy front area of the shop. The black, rose and white marble trompe l’oeuil mosaic floor recalled Bath’s history as a Roman thermal spring and baths. Tall, multi-drawer mahogany cabinets occupied most of the wall space. Between the cabinets, identically framed hand-tinted botanical prints of delicate flowers, leaves and in some cases, strangely shaped roots hung on the walls in attractive symmetry. A waist-high, wood paneled counter topped with marble bisected the shop. The shop’s front wall consisted almost entirely of glass panes and let sunlight stream in. Everywhere wood glowed with years of careful wax polishing. Flowers in the window boxes outside cast colors on the marble floor like stained glass in a church. The shop smelled as clean as the air after a spring shower. In other words, the apothecary shop was as fresh and lovely as its proprietress.
Miss Haversham stood behind the counter, dark hair loosely braided and coiled at the back of her neck. Wavy tendrils escaped their pins and teased the soft curve of her cheek. Long, dark lashes fanned over her rose-flushed cheeks. Her pert little nose was in a vast, folio-sized volume open on the countertop as she pointed to something on the page for a roughhewn sailor next to her. Her voice rippled in a velvet murmur, the sailor’s response, a dry bristle brush stroke in contrast.
“Puts my mind at ease for certain,” the sailor said with a soft, scratchy laugh.
Miss Haversham looked at the sailor and said, “It must be our secret, though, Mr. Stanton.”
“As you say, Miss H.” He touched the side of his nose, gave her a wink and took his leave.
The blasted chit charmed the old sea salt just to prove him wrong about her. She did it to vex him. She wouldn’t succeed. No. Nor would she make him repent his churlish behavior at tea the day before. Though he had to admit, she was awfully appealing at the moment. Gone was the drab, little shrew and in her place he found a sun-kissed wood nymph. Yesterday, she was a pale, subdued, mousy sort of female with a needle sharp way of expressing herself. Here, in the sparkling light of day, she glowed with life and good humor. Nothing but sheer perversity on her part could account for this breathtaking transformation.
He yearned to touch her and feel the warmth of her radiance under his fingertips. To make matters even more provoking, she looked directly at him.
Those eyes! Her eyes captivated him, transfixed him, and made him forget himself entirely. Framed by dark lashes and set off by translucent skin, her eyes dazzled him. Even at a safe distance, he was utterly mesmerized by her limpid blue green gaze. He saw her intelligence, her curiosity and something more elusive. He couldn’t help but stare back at her.
A big, bald man built like a pugilist came to stand next to Miss Haversham, fixing Ainsworth with steady, brown eyes.
Ah, Mustachio, we meet again.
The duke recognized the sturdy bull of a man who slung him around That Night. Two of the three perpetrators were now accounted for.
• • •
Prudence looked up to find the Duke of Ainsworth standing in her shop, in impeccable half dress: a well-tailored coat, buff doeskin breeches and gleaming Hessians without foppish tassels or trim. In that instant of recognition, her skin warmed and prickled uncomfortably. His dark green coat of superfine fit his broad shoulders in a way that made her heart thud. His brown hair, tousled by the wind, tempted her hands. And his steady, dark blue eyes somehow captured her gaze and interfered with normal lung function. She would blame this shortness of breath on too-tight stays, but of course, she didn’t wear them except with her best gown. No, all these distressing physical symptoms were entirely his fault.
“Good afternoon, Miss Haversham. This is an odd sliver of a building,” the duke said. “Almost whimsical.”
Prudence gaped. Was he attempting to make polite conversation? For what purpose?
“That’s why I love it,” Prudence said. “It’s quite sunny, too.” She winced as she stated the obvious and watched him turn his head this way and that.
“Very bright.” He turned his gaze back to her and smiled deliberately. His eyes crinkled at the corners but there was still frostiness in their blue depths that kept her on guard.
“Indeed.” She stood, hands clasped, eyebrows arched in a question.
“I wish to arrange treatment.” His wish sounded more like a command.
“Are you quite certain you want to pursue this…”
“I most certainly am.” His curt reply brooked no further argument.
She studied Ainsworth briefly but his face remained impassive. “When will be convenient?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Very well. And this is?” She asked, looking at Attila. The dog sat quietly at his master’s side, his massive head level with the duke’s hip.
“Miss Haversham, may I present Attila. Attila, Miss Haversham. Are you afraid of dogs?” He sounded almost hopeful.
“Not at all.” She slipped from behind the counter and said, “Attila, come!”
The dog responded immediately to Prudence’s firm command, coming to her outstretched hand and lowering his head. She rubbed behind his ears. To Ainsworth’s undisguised disgust, Attila leaned into her hands, closed his eyes and drooled ecstatically.
“Miss H. loves all manner of beasties,” Mustachio chuckled, “and they love her.” He returned to the desk against the far wall and sat down.
Prudence knelt and spoke low, “What a handsome boy you are, Attila! Your master must love jokes to give you such a dreadful name. Attila, really! You are such a lovely boy.” She looked up at the duke, “Does he go everywhere with you?”
“No, he’s quite useless,” Ainsworth grumbled.
Prudence stroked Attila’s head with her hands and scratched both his ears until the huge creature slowly collapsed onto the floor and rolled to expose his belly. His face never lost its dignity even as he folded his huge paws like a puppy and waited for her to rub his chest.
Ainsworth growled, “A ridiculous display, Attila. Have you no shame?”
“You sound like my older brother.”
“He tries to discipline large, senseless dogs?”
“No,” she laughed, “me.”
“He disapproves of you being an apothecary?”
“Among other things.”
“Isn’t disapproval for parents to measure out?”
“One would think. Unfortunately, Father was never as severe on me as my brother Oswald felt appropriate.”
“Was he right?”
“I’m afraid he wasn’t entirely wrong.” She stopped petting the dog and fixed Ainsworth with a challenging look. “I played with whatever children were about, rode my pony astride and mortified him on any number of occasions coming home covered in mud with an arm full of marsh plants for Papa. Very hoydenish.”
“Oh my.”
“I suffer from a want of refinement. Or so I’m told whenever I see him, which you can imagine is rarely.”
Attila grew restless at her neglect and stood.
“Sit.” Prudence ordered. The dog sat. “You we
re saying?”
“You’ve lived in Bath all your life?”
“For all but a twelve-month. Soon after Father and Mother passed away, my brother came by a baronetcy from a far-flung branch of the family tree and became Sir Oswald Dabney. I lived briefly on his estate in Oxfordshire.”
“Sir Oswald Dabney, not Haversham?”
“He took the hereditary surname of the baronetcy.”
“Ah.”
Why prattle in his presence? First at tea and now in her own apothecary shop, her tongue had a mind of its own or so it would seem. While she babbled, Prudence wondered if it was wise to reveal so much about her background. On the other hand, chattering caused her less discomfort than silence. In silence, the enormity of her mistake pressed upon her. She feared the force of her guilt would weigh down on her until she burst out with a confession and begged this implacable man’s forgiveness a second time. Only a fool would do that while he was conscious.
“Did you have a Season?”
“No. I’ve led a very dull life, Your Grace.”
“But not entirely without adventure, I suspect.”
She stammered, “A-almost entirely.”
“Tomorrow, Miss Haversham, shall we say one o’clock? Attila, come.” With a faint nod, Ainsworth left her. His departure felt like a thorn plucked from her finger. There was relief but also a residual sharp throb of discomfort.
“Everything all right, Miss H.?” Murphy asked.
“I believe so, Murphy. We’re not found out. The duke came for treatment of his shoulder as you heard. Lady Abingdon suggested it yesterday. But I won’t be easy until he returns to London. We must deal with him decisively so he will go away.”
“If that injury still troubles him…” Murphy began.
“We must speed the healing. Perhaps that will discourage him from seeking further treatment.”
“He’s a soldier and survived worse, that we know. And the tattoo had to hurt something awful,” Murphy chuckled, “put where it was and all.”
“Yes,” she grimaced. “But after what you must do tomorrow, I expect he will stay away.”
The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order Page 8
