Now, she understood how Jem earned his notorious reputation – and that it wasn’t exaggerated in the least. He knew his way around a woman’s body, even an untried virgin’s. He had such wicked hands. She luxuriated under his caresses. Any sodden, maidenly qualms she had at the outset went up in steam as he stroked up and down her body, exploring her with those large, gentle, intoxicating hands.
It quickly became apparent his lips were every bit as provocative as his fingers. With them, he drugged her into euphoria. While he paid lavish attention to her mouth, his kisses were just as often distributed elsewhere on her body to thrilling effect. He eagerly tasted her everywhere. Everywhere, even through her chemise. That is, until he lifted it from her. When he parted her damp curls and kept suckling the place hidden in her nether folds, her lower body simply seized up and dissolved.
Something truly magical happened afterwards. At his deft instigation, a shivery tension coiled within her like a cresting wave gathering higher, higher above the shore, thrown heavenward for an instant before tumbling down with a crash onto the sands and scattering away. Up, up he drove her. Desire, pleasure and need rose higher until…down she tumbled from the heights, speechless, senseless and limp. Replete.
As he tormented her — for it was a kind of divine torment — her hunger for him sharpened almost to pain. She ached to fill the need he conjured deep at her molten core. She arched and undulated as the sensations he stirred roiled through her. With each searching kiss, each electrifying touch, each intimate exploration, he made her shudder with unspeakable pleasure.
When he moved between her legs, she welcomed him. Clutching his broad back, she felt thick straps of muscle tense as he held himself above her. That so large and powerful a man held himself in check for her sake aroused her even more. When he slowly pressed himself to her, her body clenched at the discomfort of his outsized intrusion.
“Jem,” she gasped and tensed.
He looked down at her and asked gently, “Do you want this, nymph? Are you sure?”
“Yes, Jem.” She kissed him and whispered, “I want you.” Regardless of the consequences, heedless of the fallout, she wanted this man. Needed him.
She pulled him close, twining her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs around his hips. With a whispered apology and one plunging thrust, he did away with her virginity. With kisses and teasing, he eased himself in and out of her. This time, her body slowly adapted to him though he filled her impossibly full. They made love till she climaxed spectacularly with him. Afterward, they lay in sweaty, blissful contentment together.
She didn’t notice his silence, so engrossed was she in her own jumbled, jubilant thoughts.
She, Prudence Haversham, had abandoned all propriety and lived passionately, if only for one glorious night! Never again would she feel vaguely cheated, a fallen woman who never fell. Tonight she had fallen. No, she’d jumped! Best of all, she jumped into the arms of the man she loved.
And how she loved him! She lay in his arms, her back tucked against his chest with his strength surrounding her. She felt him stir where her bottom pressed to him. She turned in bed to look at him face to face. His mischievous grin sent her giggling back into his embrace. The second time they coupled he nearly broke her heart with his careful tenderness.
Diminishing her elation was one unavoidable thought: If only Jem were not a duke. Yet she refused to regret their lovemaking even if he couldn’t be hers. She peeked at him lying behind her. His somber, abstracted expression further dampened her exhilaration.
“There’s no undoing what we’ve done, Prudence,” he whispered. “I am well and truly caught.”
“Caught,” she said as the bottom fell out of her stomach.
“Yes. Well and truly,” he repeated.
Her mind snagged on the word ‘caught.’ She barely felt his breath at her nape or heard him mutter something about regrets. ‘Caught’ echoed in her head. With one word, Prudence’s pleasure turned bittersweet. Dewy joy evaporated. She thought giving in to temptation with Jem would eliminate regret for her, not cause more for both.
“Promise me you won’t do anything rash,” he warned unnecessarily.
“You needn’t worry, Your Grace,” she reassured him. “No one will ever know of this, you have my word. I have no expectations whatsoever.”
She understood perfectly: nothing had changed. He was a duke who would return to London; she was a newly debauched apothecary who would stay in Bath until she traveled to Italy with Lady Abingdon. The social whirl of London’s Season – and a multitude of women like Lady Jane — would occupy the duke’s time and attention; tending to the apothecary shop and her customers would preoccupy her. Ainsworth would forget her; she would do her best to forget him. In short, she would live her life and he his.
“Prudence,” he whispered.
She waited for him to speak but he said nothing more. She peeked over her shoulder at him.
“Prudence,” he repeated, “I’m going to marry you.”
Spoken like a true gentleman.
He couldn’t be serious. One night did not alter their disparate circumstances one jot.
“No, you are not,” she said fatalistically. It was nothing more than a statement of fact. It was inconceivable she would become his wife. Impossible. She waited for his rebuttal but he drew her close and murmured sweet nonsense. Her sprawling, sweaty bedmate’s breathing slowed and deepened as he fell asleep holding her in his arms. She dreaded facing him in the morning.
The duke spared her that, rising without waking her and leaving well before dawn. When she awoke later, she found herself stiff, sore and alone in bed. Nothing lingered but the musky smell of their passion in the linens.
Chapter 22
In which our hero seeks Sir Oswald’s blessing but ends up damned angry.
After more than a week in London buried up to his neck in the duchy’s pressing business, Ainsworth rewarded his industriousness by inviting Lords Percy, Clun and Seelye to join him for legally imported French brandy at Ainsworth House in the evening. He looked forward to sharing his happy news with friends.
First, he must call on the baronet.
That morning, he sent a note to Sir Oswald expressing his desire to discuss ‘a personal matter’ and would step out shortly to conduct the errand. He congratulated himself for having made steady progress on almost every front.
With Smeeth still in Bath, Ainsworth shaved himself tolerably well, dressed and allowed himself to be driven in one of his crested carriages to call upon Sir Oswald.
When the Dabney butler bowed the duke into the study, hairs at the back of his neck bristled in alarm. The settee stirred recollections. The crown molding, the fireplace mantle, both disturbed his equanimity. The Aubusson carpet underfoot gave the final jog to his memory. His fiancée brought him here for tattooing! Brassy little baggage, he chuckled, he would give her a good spanking for it after they wed.
Sir Oswald soon joined Ainsworth. After an obsequious greeting and fulsome offers of tea, spirits, snuff and cigars, the rotund baronet begged the duke to be seated. The two men sat facing each other before the cold hearth. The duke began the conversation in a mellow, amused mood.
“Thank you for seeing me on short notice.”
“To what do we owe this great honor, Your Grace?” Sir Oswald asked eagerly.
“It’s a matter involving your sister, Miss Haversham.”
“Prudence? What’s she done now?” Sir Oswald peeped then pinched his lips to a flat line. “Whatever it is, please accept my sincerest apology in advance, Your Grace. If you please, my wife should join our conversation.” He rang for the butler, who went to fetch her. She was no further away than the other side of a communicating door in the next room, eavesdropping on the two men.
An expensively dressed woman bustled in, her hands clasped tightly before her. Lady Dabney wore her faded brown hair tucked into a cap suffering from a fatal outbreak of frills. It framed a face that gave every impression of fiercen
ess: beady, lashless pale eyes, broad nose and a mouth with a marked under bite like a freshwater pike. He would’ve described her as hatchet-faced, but her face was not narrow. It more closely resembled a maul, the thicker, heavier, wedge-shaped ax used to split large, hardwood logs.
Sir Oswald presented his wife to the duke with tiresome punctiliousness. She dipped into a deep, knee-cracking curtsey.
“The Duke of Ainsworth has condescended to call about a matter involving Prudence,” Sir Oswald related to his spouse portentously. The baronet’s tone and the pointed look he exchanged with his sour wife soured the duke’s mood immediately.
Coldly, Ainsworth began as he intended, “I am aware Prudence has reached her majority and requires no one’s permission to marry but I wish to observe the proprieties.”
“I beg pardon, Your Grace, but am I to understand you are offering for my sister-in-law, the apothecary?” Lady Dabney asked in undisguised disbelief.
Ainsworth arched a brow at her in just the way his father did when he wished to quell presumption. It silenced Lady Dabney.
At least one bit of this ducal business was useful.
“I wish to conclude the marriage settlement as quickly as possible,” His Grace stated. “Have you any objections to my suit?”
“Perish the thought, no! Naturally we’re honored and humbled, er, we’re humbly honored, Your Grace,” Sir Oswald responded.
“Such a distinguished connection…” the maul-faced wife murmured, looking as though something she ate disagreed with her.
“I’m relieved to hear it,” the duke said dryly.
“If I may ask, is this expeditiousness your desire, Your Grace?” Lady Dabney trilled.
“Mmm” was his reply.
“How fortunate for her! It was our understanding Prudence lived mostly out of Society in Bath. I cannot imagine how she managed to come to your attention but life is funny that way sometimes, isn’t it?” She simpered.
Though thoroughly offended on Prudence’s behalf, Ainsworth chose to ignore Lady Dabney’s contemptible innuendo about ‘managing it.’ He retreated behind aloof dignity.
“My man of affairs will contact you with settlement terms, which you’ll find generous. In the meantime, I would appreciate your discretion.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Sir Oswald said. “You have my word. Lips are sealed and so forth.”
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve trespassed on your hospitality long enough.”
Tapping his cane impatiently against his polished boot, he waited for Lady Dabney to take his hint and stand so he could depart. He left them without another word and only the slightest nod of his head. With a curt nod to the footman to open the door, he strode out without a backward glance.
He left the Dabney townhouse in a seething fury. His Prudence had beauty, poise and dignity without pretension. In contrast, Sir Oswald was a spineless, pudgy chucklehead and his wife, a malicious termagant. Her insinuations revealed how little Lady Dabney relished the prospect of her sister-in-law occupying a rank so far superior to her own. His only regret in marrying Prudence was giving any consequence to those two through the connection but it couldn’t be helped. She would be his as soon as he could complete his arrangements.
To that end, Ainsworth tasked Sterling with finalizing the marriage contract. “See to it that my duchess wants for nothing, absolutely nothing, is that clear? She shall swim in pin money, generous portions to all issue and she’s to have title to the Bath properties, understand? I’d like that last concluded first so I may present her the deeds as a betrothal gift.”
“Your Grace, a moment,” Sterling paused, quill poised over his notes. “To sign over the properties now, you must use your fiancée’s maiden name. Then later have them re-deeded in her married name. It would be concluded faster if I execute the transfer once immediately after your nuptials, if that is acceptable.”
“I see. Very well.”
That evening, Ainsworth greeted the other Horsemen of the Apocalypse in a foul mood, courtesy of Sir Oswald and his pike-jawed, maul-faced spouse. He wore his shirt open at the neck, no cravat, his ivy-climbing breeches and scuffed boots (these out of yet more treacle-y sentimentality). His hair was finger-combed and unruly. Stubble shadowed his jaw.
“Jem, you look execrable!” Seelye exclaimed. “What’s got you so blue-deviled?”
“Not a woman, pray,” Percy added as he circled their unkempt friend.
“A lady,” Ainsworth corrected brusquely.
“Oh bloody hell,” Clun sighed in resignation. “Will we be able to tolerate the chit and she us? Or will we upset your duchess with our rough ways and be banished?”
“May we offer felicitations?” Percy cut in, carefully neutral. “Ainsworth?”
The duke stared out the window at his garden’s shadowy verdure beyond the glass, replaying the damnable insinuations Prudence’s only relations expressed to him without the slightest compunction. It still infuriated him.
“Ainsworth?” Percy repeated.
“What? Oh, it’s not quite settled yet but it’ll have to be soon,” he sighed.
“If this is what love looks like,” Clun muttered to Seelye under his breath, “I insist you shoot me. Simply put me out of my misery should I ever take such a pratfall.”
“Don’t be a gudgeon, Clun,” Seelye said. “Where’s Smeeth? You want a decent shave, Jem.”
“Left him in Bath to keep an eye on things for me. Thatcher doesn’t dare take a razor to my throat with only one hand so I shift for myself.” The duke ran a hand over his jaw and grumbled, “Must I shave a second time to avoid doing violence to your bloody acute sensibilities?”
Clun, Percy and Seelye glanced at each other. Ainsworth was uncharacteristically surly but the lukewarm reference to his betrothal alarmed his friends a great deal more.
“And who will be your duchess, Ainsworth?” Percy inquired.
“Miss Prudence Haversham,” the duke bit out each syllable.
“Haversham?” Seelye considered, “Haven’t heard of the family. You, Clun?”
Clun shrugged.
“Nor I,” said Percy. “Though I haven’t memorized Debrett’s.”
“Or know many in the ton. Most scatter before us in terror, et cetera,” Clun said mischievously.
“Not us, Clun. You. Only you. Whether you ride or walk, the wise flee before you!” Seelye mocked.
“Well, Ainsworth, we’re happy for you,” Percy said diplomatically. The other two lords agreed halfheartedly.
His Grace accepted their tepid congratulations absent-mindedly. He neglected to offer brandy and his friends did not press for it.
“When shall we meet Miss Haversham? Will she attend the Blakeley Ball?” Seelye asked.
“No. Lives in Bath.”
“Does she?” said Clun. “How did you meet?”
“It’s complicated,” he replied with a grimace.
“Is it?” Seelye asked, clearly unhappy.
“It always seems to be, eh?” Percy interjected to forestall Seelye’s interrogation. “Nothing involving women is ever straightforward.” Percy patted Ainsworth gently on the back. “Well, with so much on your mind, this isn’t the right time to drink ourselves into a happy stupor over your upcoming nuptials. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll leave you to it. Congratulations, of course.”
“Yes, perhaps that’s best,” the duke muttered. “Later.”
Ainsworth saw them to the front door. The footman opened it and the Horsemen took their leave.
After Ainsworth’s friends walked a sufficient distance, they stopped to confer.
“What do you think?” Percy asked the others.
“Obvious, isn’t it? Some grasping chit in Bath has caught our bacon-brained friend in a parson’s mousetrap,” Seelye concluded.
Clun growled, “Where’s the chit’s family in all this?”
“Rejoicing,” Seelye declared with distaste. “There’s nothing else for it, my lords. We must rescue Ainswort
h from the Succubus of Bath.”
With that, the three flagged a hackney cab and discussed how they might secure their friend’s freedom.
Though the duke heard nothing alarming from Smeeth, he grew more anxious about returning to Bath as each week passed. He’d already made clear to Prudence that they would marry; however, Prudence seemed certain they would not. She was wrong but he refrained from arguing with her, which seemed like the polite thing to do at the time. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Ainsworth also refrained from writing her immediately after returning to London because he detested writing letters. He believed in the maxim ‘res, non verba,’ actions not words. He planned to let his actions speak for him. Actions would convince her if she doubted the inevitability of their marriage.
After more than a month slipped away, the duke was still in Town with the family ring to hunt up among other things, so the Man of Action Not Words very reluctantly opted to write Prudence a love letter.
Composing this letter made Ainsworth suffer greatly. Indeed, it couldn’t have pained him more if he’d used his own blood as ink and gouged it from his arm with a rusty fork.
The duke sat at his massive desk in a state of inert agony. Resting his chin on stacked fists, he glared at the blank sheet of crested stationery before him. Words, where were the blasted words? He sat. He thought. He questioned his thoughts. The longer he sat, the more his inarticulate misery compounded itself.
That he loved Prudence was obvious; he was going to marry her for God’s sake. Therefore, this letter must explain why Prudence ought to — no, not ‘ought,’ ought was too tentative — why Prudence must marry him. Nooo, not ‘must.’ Too arrogant. Presumptuous. Mustn’t order her about. He wanted to persuade her not put her hackles up. He simply sought to leave no doubt in her mind about their future together.
The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order Page 17
