That shouldn’t be so bloody difficult!
It would be easier if he understood her doubts but try as he might, he couldn’t. It wasn’t that she had no affection for him. She did, that much he knew. She was not the sort of female who gave her maidenhead casually. What’s more, she’d enjoyed herself — he’d made damned sure she enjoyed herself several times before he enjoyed himself even once. Bloody hell, it was all so obvious: she was his, he was hers and that was that. But he couldn’t write that. He’d sound like a simpleton.
The reasons for her to marry him were legion. It was simply hard luck that his legion of reasons milled about in his head in desperate want of an officer to drill them into order.
That’s it. Must get to it.
He picked up a quill he’d stripped and dressed for this purpose. He twirled it in his hand. He ran the feather’s remaining barbs along his jaw to hear the light scritch-scritch over his afternoon stubble. He flicked the sterling cap off the cobalt cut glass inkwell, dipped his quill tip and tap-tap-tapped off the excess. If only the opening line would come to him. He tap-tap-tapped until the ink dried on the nib.
Blast!
He dipped again. Best to get right to the heart of it. “Dear Prudence,” he wrote and grimaced.
Blast and damnation!
Should’ve written ‘Nymph.’ Expresses affection and intimacy. He botched the bloody greeting. That sheet crumpled easily in his big hand and he fetched another from the box in his desk drawer.
He smoothed the sheet on the leather blotter, retrieved his quill, dipped it decisively and hastily scrawled: “Dear Nymph.” Here, his hand faltered.
No. Still not warm enough.
Down went the quill. Crinkle went the sheet. New sheet. “Dearest Nymph,” he wrote fluently.
Much better!
Pleased with his progress, he stood to stretch his legs. He walked around the room then peeked into the hallway. The mongrels looked in need of exercise. He took them for a walk. A few hours later, he returned with a clear head and fresh inspiration.
Rather than blather on, the duke sat down, took up his quill and plumbed the depths of his heart to express his dedication to her. It was sincere and poetical in its way. It took fewer lines than he’d anticipated which was a vast relief, for he did not have a way with words, written or spoken.
Having signed his name, he considered looking it over one last time. No! After the salutation debacle, he realized nitpicking served no earthly purpose. He was not a poet but he’d meant every word he wrote. He sanded the page and hastily folded and sealed the letter before he could worry it to death like a terrier with a rat. He dashed off her direction on the outside, franked it with his signature and left it for the morning post.
Having gushed himself dry on paper, he would let actions speak for him from now on. To wit, he would return to Bath quickly, sweep Prudence Haversham off her sensibly shod feet and, if he encountered any hesitance, make love to her till she saw the wisdom and benefit of obtaining the Church’s blessing.
That ought to persuade her of his sincerity if a heartfelt love letter could not.
• • •
Prudence received a mysterious letter several days later. She didn’t recognize the hurried scrawl or the blurred seal on the expensive stationery. Curious, she cracked the blue wax and read:
Dearest Nymph,
There’s no escaping me. It was meant to be.
Ainsworth
She stared at it for some minutes then tucked it carefully into her linen apron pocket where she also kept a monogrammed pocket square. She hardly knew what to think of those nine words.
Was it meant to be?
She allowed herself to imagine the joy of marriage to Jem Maubrey.
Her daydream began sunny enough: dancing in his arms, kissing and being kissed breathless, sleeping tucked at his side in a bedstead, making love again and again, laughing together as they raised a family. If their marriage only depended upon mutual affection (and blistering passion), they might be happy together — assuming he wasn’t marrying her out of a gentleman’s sense of obligation.
In reality, however, Jem was the Duke of Ainsworth. They would not live in a blissful bubble insulated from social judgment. She’d had a taste of that censure already in the tall, tense form of Lady Jane Babcock. Over what? Prudence earned her tart, voluble displeasure over nothing more than a few waltzes. Imagine what catty mothers and their envious daughters would say if she were to wed the duke!
After unflattering expressions of amazement would come speculations about the improbable match, punctuated by disdainful sniffs that he’d married too far beneath himself. She was an inappropriate choice, this she knew. Despite being an earl’s granddaughter, Prudence would’ve had no place in Polite Society at all, even at its fringe, if not for Lady Abingdon’s unwavering sponsorship over the years. In the eyes of the ton, she would forever bear the stigma of being a spinster apothecary.
Granted, if she were duchess no one would dare offend her overtly. But noblewomen had subtler methods to slight an upstart, making sly comments in the privacy of a retiring room or excluding her from their circles. Loving Jem as she did, she wouldn’t give a fig about ostracism so long as they could be happy together and so long as he didn’t suffer for marrying ‘down.’ Realistically, though, could he remain happily married to a social liability? She didn’t know.
Finally, Prudence dared contemplate her gravest concern. What if Jem insisted they marry solely because a gentleman must wed the gently born virgin he ruined? If that were the case and they married, she would live the rest of her life knowing she entrapped him — albeit unintentionally. To that, add Society’s contempt for the mismatch and she anticipated misery for them both.
If only she could ask Jem directly!
Would he answer her truthfully if it might hurt her? No, she concluded glumly, he would not. He was a gentleman. A gentleman would deny any sense of obligation to spare her feelings, especially if it was true.
Whatever the duke wrote or said to the contrary, their marriage was not meant to be.
Having indulged in the daydream and considered its practical consequences, Prudence embraced her only sensible option: the yearlong trip to Italy with Lady Abingdon. By going, she could help her beloved godmother fulfill a last wish. She’d also have a twelve-month to forget the duke and to absolve him of any obligation he felt toward her. In her absence, Jem would be free to marry a more acceptable miss. Then long after he’d married, she’d return to Bath as a new mother and the tragic widow of a fictional Italian gentleman.
Prudence invented the consumptive Florentine quickly despite her unquiet mind for she was inured to unanticipated circumstances and adapting to them.
If what she suspected was true — and primitive instinct told her it was — she would somehow learn to cope with what would come to scandalous fruition nine months after her night of passion with the duke.
Chapter 23
In which wags ponder whether Lady J. will break the Mayfair Stallion to the saddle.
Ainsworth wanted more than anything to present his beloved with a perfect man, but that was not in the offing. The duke knew he was not perfect. Hearing nothing back from her, he also knew he’d somehow botched his love letter. So he set about to devise the perfect, romantic reiteration of his honorable intentions.
There was just one minor difficulty. Ainsworth had no idea how to broach the subject of buying Prudence’s home and business and threatening her with eviction. He wanted to make a clean breast of it, but how? When?
Any explanation of this transaction cast him in an unflattering light as a petty, vindictive knave who used his wealth to revenge himself on a vulnerable female. Frankly, he’d rather his bride-to-be not see him as a vicious lout during his formal proposal.
He certainly owed Prudence an apology but wondered if she would agree to marry him if he told her about it beforehand. Probably not. He was giving her the properties as soon as he could, perhaps he mi
ght be forgiven for omitting mention of it till after they married? It tempted him until he remembered Prudence turned a lawyer loose on the matter. That great looby Sterling immediately registered the purchase in June. As a result, damning proof was presently percolating through the legal system; her Mr. Smithson could discover the truth at any time.
Nor could Ainsworth play upon her guilt for tattooing him to offset his dirty dealing. She’d apologized and he’d accepted her apology. A gentleman left it at that.
Furthermore, her tattoo around his man parts had faded from his awareness. His nether thatch, again resplendent, also helped keep the tattoo out of sight and out of mind. Besides, it was only a silly tattoo. Once the bruising subsided and he had a good look at it, he had to admit it was faithfully rendered. Since developing warmer, lustier feelings for Prudence, Ainsworth considered it a capital prank that she alone was clever enough to perpetrate.
Had it been placed elsewhere, say, on his chest, he might’ve considered it dashing.
Even situated as it was, he no longer feared public ridicule. Indiscreet widows and wanton wives did not tempt him in the least. He desired only Miss Prudence Haversham. The unfortunate corollary of his single-minded devotion was that Ainsworth wanted her with a passion that made him frantic with frustration and prone to jealousy.
To keep from losing his mind in London, Ainsworth took exercise daily, riding his hack or walking his dogs in Hyde Park. This, naturally, did not go unpublicized. Now admittedly, his dogs were eager to run and play but it hardly constituted “An Invasion of the Mongrel Horde” as some witless scribbler at the Observer wrote. Unfortunately, of the celebrated ‘Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ the Duke of Ainsworth continued to provide the most colorful copy in civilian life. Being at the loftiest reach of the haute ton, the duke offered the press an irresistible target. And Cits loved to see the mighty knocked down a notch. As a consequence, His Grace’s every eccentricity and mishap ended up thoroughly reported, often accompanied by an illustration penned by a spiteful caricaturist.
Much to Ainsworth’s disgust, this fascination extended to his dogs. They never failed to cause some spectacular public nuisance. Perhaps the most mortifying of these incidents involved Fred dragging his bottom leisurely across the Prince Regent’s path while His Highness rode on Rotten Row. (Fred and the duke were only saved from disgrace by Prinny’s own rather scatological sense of humor.)
The duke allowed that Puck was a bit over zealous about recruiting child playmates at the water’s edge. And yes, perhaps George and Fred should not shake themselves dry near the nannies after joining Puck for a sortie against the swans in the Serpentine. But they were harmless. The children squealed with glee even as their nannies were audibly traumatized. These formidable women took most vocal exception to poor Attila. Why, Ainsworth couldn’t conceive. The dog remained with pontifical solemnity at his side, aloof from the commotion caused by his furry subalterns. The idea of leashing them, as vociferously suggested by several of the nannies, was ludicrous. Perhaps an earlier morning amble would better suit all parties.
Of course, if Ainsworth just once introduced himself by title to the old hens, he would forever silence their cackling but where was the sport in that? If he made himself known, they would suffer mortification recalling their previous torrents of invective. He would not embarrass them for doing their duty. He much preferred to be the ‘tatty, troublemaking man’ with the ‘ill-mannered, hell-born brutes.’
Tatty he was, too. In undress, Ainsworth wore old, comfortable country gentleman’s attire while walking “Cerberus and the Hounds from Hell” (a gross mischaracterization, courtesy of the Times). His acquaintances in the ton tut-tutted and considered this yet another of his outrageous eccentricities, on par with wandering about Mayfair on foot and rarely, if ever, wearing a beaver hat.
In contrast to his ramshackle jaunts in the park, Ainsworth rode in impeccably tailored splendor, a duke down to the soles of his buff cuffed riding boots. Both his seat and his mounts were the envy of all. Needless to say, horseback riding in Town wasn’t nearly as entertaining as walking the beasts.
“This dressing like a pig farmer, Ainsworth. Really, must you?” Lady Jersey said among many, many other things at the Blakeley Ball the following night. “Surely you know how to turn yourself out in mufti. You manage full dress for evenings well enough.” She eyed him up and down. “You cut quite a dash when you choose.”
“My animals have no respect for Weston’s coats or Hoby’s Hessians, Lady Jersey. I prefer they ruin old clothes but I take your point.”
“We can only hope you haven’t set the style for young men with more hair than brains. It won’t do to have London’s beaux running about looking like bumpkins. Some female must take you in hand soon or you’ll be carted off to Bedlam,” the countess said and rapped his arm with her fan. “What of Lady Jane Babcock?” She poked him in the ribs none too gently. “She has the prerequisites.” Poke. “Such elegance.” Poke. “A diamond of the first water.” Poke, poke.
“Indeed, Your Ladyship.” He bowed over her hand and shifted beyond her fan’s reach with a crooked grin. “I shall endeavor to dance with Lady Jane, if you wish.”
“Thank you.” Lady Jersey dismissed him with a maternal pat.
At that moment, across the room, Lady Jane Babcock regaled Lady Iphigenia Thornton with more of her assessment of the Duke of Ainsworth within earshot of Lord Seelye.
“I wonder at the duke procrastinating as he does. He isn’t ancient but he must know it’s past time to find his duchess and marry her,” Jane intoned.
“You would make the perfect duchess for him, Jane,” her friend agreed. Then she closed her eyes to recite a passage in The Mirror of Graces from memory, “‘The most beautiful and well-dressed woman will soon cease to please unless her charms are accompanied with the ineffable enchantment of a graceful demeanor.’ And you, dear Jane, have charm and demeanor.”
“Do you think so?” She replied. Lord Seelye snorted and turned away. Seeing this, Jane raised her voice to add, “Ainsworth and I do get on and I believe he may be forming an attachment.”
“Oh, Jane, that’s such happy news!” Iphigenia declaimed in Seelye’s direction.
“We mustn’t be premature. There’s no understanding yet. It’s just woman’s intuition.”
“You’re too modest,” Iphigenia exclaimed. “And too beautiful! How could he not be violently in love with you!”
At this, Lord Seelye turned to eye them through his quizzing glass, snorted again and strolled off.
“Drat the man, he’s gone, Iphie,” Lady Jane muttered under her breath to her friend.
“Oh dear, do you think he heard us?”
“He heard. He doesn’t care,” Lady Jane responded crestfallen.
“Jane! He’s coming this way!” Iphigenia said in a stage whisper that reached Ainsworth halfway across the ballroom. Lady Jane turned, flirting expertly with her fan. Its delicate sweep of lace concealed her consternation that he was not the snorting, indifferent lord.
“Good evening, Lady Jane, Lady Iphigenia.” The duke nodded.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” Both made demure curtseys.
“If you’ll excuse us, Lady Iphigenia, I believe this is my dance, Lady Jane?”
The duke led Lady Jane to the dance floor and began what soon became an interminable quadrille. To amuse himself, he tried to count the number of times Prudence Haversham curtseyed to him. There was the first time he entered the apothecary shop. No. That was not a proper curtsey, more a regal inclination of her head and then not once thereafter! Saucy little baggage! He chuckled to himself. That merited another spanking.
“What do you find so amusing, Your Grace?” Lady Jane asked, smiling brilliantly up at him as the partners promenaded together.
“I’m simply enjoying the dance, Lady Jane.”
The duke could not keep his mind on the figures. The problem of Prudence dogged his thoughts while he remained mired in London.
He hadn’t the slightest notion. His older brother was groomed from birth to be perfect; he was only expected to be unobtrusive. Phillip was the model son, ideal heir apparent and for too brief a time, the perfect, presentable ninth Duke of Ainsworth. Phillip made it look effortless, as if perfection were an inborn trait. If so, the second born son had not inherited it. No one expected perfection from Lord Jeremy Maubrey, including Lord Jeremy Maubrey. Not that he was a wastrel or a scoundrel. Far from it. But truth to tell, he was prone to improvising questionable short cuts to achieve his goals.
Joining the infantry was probably the most dramatic example of his slapdash approach to making his way in life. That is, it had been until he scaled an ivy-covered cottage wall to intimidate a bewitching prankster and ended up falling hopelessly in love with her.
It was common for second sons of the nobility to offer themselves up to king and country, and the eighth Duke of Ainsworth was all for doing one’s duty, but Ainsworth’s mother had worked on his father behind closed doors. One did not gainsay the duchess, not even the duke. Thus, his father insisted he join the clergy rather than fight “that diminutive Corsican” on the continent. Instead, Jem Maubrey hied off to enlist in the infantry, where he soon learned his speech and manners guaranteed him hard usage by all. Fortunately, he had a knack for getting along with others of all stripes. More important, he was endowed with an intimidating physique and fearlessness that quickly earned him the respect of his officers and fellow soldiers.
Though he went off to war a black sheep, he didn’t remain one for long.
Acknowledging the unavoidable, the eighth Duke made certain his impetuous younger son was plucked from the ranks of cannon fodder and given a commission in the Household Cavalry. In the Royal Horse Guards Blue, Lord Maubrey met Lords Percy, Seelye and Clun. A man couldn’t wish for braver, more stalwart friends. Together they were imperfect in their own highly entertaining, casually courageous way.
The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order Page 18
