The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order
Page 24
“Let me up, please.” She arched her back to pull away. “Your Grace!”
With her free hand she slapped his face. Hard.
He released her. She scrambled off him, lips swollen, braid loose and eyes wild. He sat up slowly, rubbing his cheek. He shook his shaggy head several times. He blinked and tried to focus bloodshot eyes.
After feeling her way through the dark, she stood pressed against the locked door. She waited for him to come to his senses.
“Are y’ there?” He blinked and squinted trying to find her in the dim shadows. “Where’d y’ go? What’d I do?”
“Nothing, nothing at all, Your Grace. It was my fault. I started it,” Prudence babbled. “I’m going now.”
“Don’t go,” came his whisper. He flopped back against the settee, an arm slung over his face and groaned, “Oh nymph, what’m I t’ do with you?”
She pounded on the door until Thatcher reopened it. Out she flew. “His Grace is seriously jug-bitten. I shall send an analgesic powder in the morning for his head, Thatcher.” She glared at him and Murphy, narrowed her eyes and said through gritted teeth, “Never do that again. Understand?”
Both men ducked their heads. Thatcher murmured something about trying to help but she had already opened the door and let herself out. Murphy shrugged and hurried after her.
• • •
Returning to Trim Street late the next morning, Prudence was infuriated to find Murphy unpacking what she had spent the last two days packing — on her own. Chastising him about the previous night’s escapade flew from her thoughts.
“What on earth are you doing, Murphy? Stop this immediately!” Murphy calmly returned more pouches of herbs to their drawers in the tall cabinets. “Are you deaf now?”
“The building’s new owner wants the shop to remain here, Miss H.”
“You work for him now, do you?”
“Way I see it, the missus and I could try to carry on somewhere else but there’s no guarantee folks’d bother to find us in a new place with you gone so long. Here, they’ll come as usual and I’ll have a chance to prove myself.”
Much as Prudence hated to admit it, Murphy made sense. Still she resisted, “I won’t be the duke’s tenant, Murphy, I’m sorry.”
“You won’t have to be, Miss H. We will. And we can stay on at the cottage, too. The duke’s Mr. Sterling offered us excellent terms.” It stung how readily Murphy left her employ to accept the duke’s easy terms.
“But I’ll help you till you get on your feet elsewhere!”
“When you’re gone to Italy?” Murphy asked.
“You can rely on me! I’ll do what I must.”
Murphy put down the box he emptied and took his mistress’ small hands between his, “There’s no need to worry over us, Miss H. No more taking care of us either. This way, you can do for yourself as you see fit. We’re staying here to manage things. We’ll be fine, you’ll see. Everything’ll be fine.”
To this, Prudence had no response.
She’d thought she’d already lost everything that mattered. She was mistaken. She hadn’t lost it all until now. Henceforth, she was truly on her own. But Murphy was right in a way. If she didn’t have to support them, she shouldered one less burden. She was free to do as she wished, or must.
She would move to Lady Abingdon’s house that very day. Nothing more kept her. She was ready to leave for Tuscany, eat ham with her godmother and come to terms with motherhood.
Though many questions about her future remained unanswerable, she felt calmer seeing her way forward for a time.
Prudence left the shop to call on Lady Abingdon in her Royal Crescent townhouse. After a restorative cup of tea, she returned to her — or rather, the duke’s — cottage in the Abingdon carriage. Mrs. Mason was nowhere to be found naturally.
Prudence quickly packed her clothing and personal effects in a bag and a trunk. With the coachman’s help, she removed them from the cottage and walked away on leaden feet. There was time enough to return for her few remaining boxes and crates of family memorabilia before she left Bath for sunnier climes. Her prized distiller could stay in place for Mrs. Mason’s use.
Given Murphy’s abandonment and Mrs. Mason’s absence, she left no note or forwarding information. She’d write to them from Florence eventually.
Days passed and Prudence Haversham succeeded in dropping off the face of the earth. From Lady Abingdon, she learned that the duke and his friends searched the town thoroughly but found no trace of her. To Mrs. Mason, Murphy, Mr. Smithson and any of the others who inquired, her ladyship disavowed any knowledge of Prudence’s whereabouts, as she promised she would.
Meanwhile, Prudence lived hidden away in Lady Abingdon’s townhouse on the Royal Crescent where she woke up nauseous each morning and had nothing to do but ruminate about her predicament and read travel guides on Renaissance art and the machinations of the Medici.
“I don’t know what to do,” Prudence said after a week of seclusion, not realizing she was exhausting her godmother’s modest reserve of patience.
“I’ve no notion, my dear. But I know better than to offer any guidance on love or marriage for it’s no use urging any action on the young. They are willfully perverse and without fail do the opposite,” Lady Abingdon said with asperity. “In fact, I have put this immutable law of human nature to good use upon occasion.”
“I won’t do the opposite to be perverse,” Prudence said peevishly.
“No, of course not. You’ll find numerous sound reasons to reject what I suggest but the outcome will be the same. It’s all too tiresome,” her ladyship huffed. “Decide for yourself, my girl. I find it hard to credit you would prefer to be a widow’s companion than a duchess. Still, if that’s what you desire, so be it. I’ll welcome your company in Tuscany but you’d be a ninny to disappear when so much is in the offing.”
“There is nothing in the offing,” Prudence contradicted gloomily.
“Again the perversity of youth! They needs must argue with the obvious. Why ever do I try?” The dowager countess addressed herself to the heavens. To Prudence, she said, “I shall say no more. Apparently you won’t be satisfied until you’ve made yourself thoroughly miserable. I’m tempted not to help either of you.” She leaned on her cane to rise to her feet and adjusted her shawl over her walking dress. “I’m going out, my dear.”
“Will you be all right?” Prudence asked with concern. “I wish I could go with you. Promise me you won’t overexert yourself, I pray you!”
“Have no fear, dear child, I’m feeling quite toddlesome today,” she said and left Prudence to ruminate.
Much as Lady Abingdon wanted to see the scandalous Michelangelo marbles in Florence, she anticipated better entertainment at home than abroad for months to come. Her travels would have to wait.
Despite what she might say in frustration, Lady Abingdon could not resist interfering in Prudence’s life. For as any honest society matron must admit, interfering was prime sport among her cohort. Therefore, if Prudence refused to step out of the townhouse, the dowager countess would see to it His Grace the lovesick swain could corner the silly chit in her self-imposed prison.
Lady Abingdon took a sedan chair directly to Morford Street.
Chapter 33
In which our hero attempts to catch a nymph.
The next morning, Lady Abingdon’s footman opened the door to the Duke of Ainsworth and his monstrous large dog. They filled her ladyship’s front hall.
“Stay!” the duke barked. Attila sat and looked blasé.
The butler arrived.
“Is Lady Abingdon or Miss Haversham at home, Skeaping?” The duke asked after both ladies for propriety’s sake, though he knew her ladyship would be absent. She’d mentioned this yesterday while expressly forbidding him to importune Prudence in her ladyship’s absence, as Miss Haversham ‘had no desire’ to see him ever again.
“Lady Abingdon is not. I shall inquire whether Miss Haversham is at home, Your Grace.”
Ainsworth’s long legs carried him quickly up to the first floor, then up and down the hall looking in the salons, from there, up the stairs to the second floor where the last bedroom door stood open. Entering the room, he found no one but detected the scent of thorny roses in the air. He plunged back down the stairs to where the butler stood with what poise he could muster after such an indecorous display. The footman opened the front door for the duke’s exit.
Ainsworth paused in the foyer to leave a brief message with the butler before continuing his search. “Skeaping, I would like to speak with Lady Abingdon when she returns.” He hesitated in the foyer to add, “It is a matter of great urgency. Time is of the essence. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Your Grace.”
“Please ask her ladyship to send word at her earliest convenience, will you? Does she have my direction?”
“I believe so, Your Grace.”
“Very well, as soon as she returns, Skeaping.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The butler’s face looked carved from stone when the duke finally left the townhouse. Attila followed, ignoring both butler and footman plastered up against the wall to allow the animal to pass outside.
• • •
Prudence felt more than heard the duke’s deep voice two floors below and panicked. She snuck to the top of the stairway to overhear him talk to Skeaping. When she heard the duke bounding up the stairs just below, she turned and scampered down the second floor hallway to descend the servants’ stairway as quietly as she could. Fortunately, the duke made no effort to muffle his stomping back and forth so she escaped undetected.
Down she raced to the kitchen, moving briskly past a gawping French chef, his cowed minions, a few scullery maids at work and footmen at ease, to the end of the kitchen. She exited through the service door, which was a full storey below street level. She hurried up the stairs, which let out on the pavement through a wrought iron gate beside the front stairs.
The creak of the front door opening gave her just enough time to retreat and crouch out of sight. Her heart pounded. No one appeared. She heard his voice and decided to make a dash for it. For the moments she needed, the doorway remained open and empty. She darted out, leapt off the curb into the street.
Lady Abingdon’s townhouse stood at the apex of the Royal Crescent. Prudence looked up and down the semi-circular street only to realize he would see her if she attempted to flee. The view was unobstructed for hundreds of yards in either direction. In front of her on the vast green meadow of Barton Field sat a group of lady artists, sketching the bucolic scene of sheep grazing in the pasture. She scurried over and plunked herself down among them with her plain bonnet bowed.
“Attila, come!” she heard the duke bark across the street.
She peeked over her shoulder to watch Ainsworth take his leave followed by Attila. He hurtled down the stone stairs, head swiveling side to side. She ducked away to stay concealed but clearly heard his heavy footfalls recede on the pavement on the opposite side of the street. He moved toward the heart of town with Attila at heel.
She peeked again. As the duke stalked down the broad walkway, Attila ambled with him at first. But the dog stopped and cocked his ears. Attila crossed the street and doubled back, picking his way daintily among startled nannies, past a young buck trying not to show fear and through the artists. There were a few cries of alarm but Attila ignored them. When he reached Prudence, his tail batted at the bonnet of her neighbor, who wisely yielded her place to the animal.
“Bad dog,” Prudence gritted out. “Bad Attila. Very bad dog.”
The monster wagged harder at her acknowledgement. She pushed at him, which he took for encouragement to lean into her hand. She prodded. He sat. His haunches pinned the skirt of her muslin gown beneath him. He nuzzled her hand with a cold, wet nose as she shoved him hard with both hands. His eyes closed as he slowly collapsed to recline fully. His great blocky head and shoulders soon rested squarely across her lap.
“Go away, drat you!” His paws folded and he turned belly up for a rub, insensible to her sharp tone. Prudence hissed and huffed but she could not remove the recumbent dog off her person.
From a distance, she heard the duke’s sharp call. Attila closed his eyes and played deaf. Again, Ainsworth commanded the dog to come. Attila preferred to stay and play dead.
• • •
His Grace made a furious detour to collect his wayward mongrel, an apology on the tip of his tongue as he approached.
He froze.
His brilliant dog had pinned his prey in place. At last! He was sober. She was trapped. Perfect. Or as perfect as he would ever manage. Certainly he preferred not to meet with another of her tart rejections before a gawping gaggle of females but nothing would turn him from his purpose.
Prudence looked so adorably discomposed. Her bonnet sat askew on her head. Her hair escaped, trailing silken tendrils. Her eyes snapped and sparked cool gray but all for naught. His dog remained oblivious, happy to be within easy reach of her magic hands, even if those hands were only trying to fend him off.
“A beef bone for you, Attila. Good boy!” The duke smiled, full of mischief. “You have no one to blame but yourself, Miss Haversham. Attila was an immediate conquest.” She tried to squirm away. “Have you been injured by his attentions?”
“I cannot feel my legs at the moment. If you would be so kind…”
“Of course. First, if I may, I’d like to discuss something with you.”
She said nothing but looked wary. Their transfixed audience said not a syllable.
Looking at the lady artists, Ainsworth began mildly, “What I must say is of a private nature, if you will excuse us.” It was not a request. The duke’s imposing demeanor spoke for itself. The artists collected their sketch paper, sorted their charcoals and hurried off with many a backward glance. Attila sprawled over Prudence’s lap, eyes closed, forepaws tucked to his chest, belly warming in the sun.
“God help me, I envy a dog,” Ainsworth muttered.
Prudence watched him as he sat down facing her on her dog-less side. He stretched his long legs parallel hers in the opposite direction. He stroked Attila’s head on her lap and prayed for coherence. He sat so close, practically hip-to-hip, he could feel her warmth through the doeskin of his breeches.
“I haven’t done any of this properly, nymph. I promise I meant to. Well, not at first. I meant to intimidate you and worse but things changed.”
“Did they?” She didn’t bother to conceal her skepticism. “When?”
“I don’t know. You ambushed me. Wasn’t pleased about that either. Not at first.” He ran a hand through his windblown hair to brush it out of his eyes. “I am not referring,” he dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned closer, “to your infernal prank.”
She waited silently.
“I should’ve courted you properly, not like a sneak thief. Problem was, is, I want to be with you. No, I must. Must. It’s a necessity. Not something I can ignore. The pangs of it worsen the longer I’m without you. And the prospect of my entire life without you...It’s uncomfortable.”
She still said nothing, her eyes averted. He growled in frustration, “I’m no good at this. Forgive me.”
Finally, she looked up at him, “Go on.”
He took heart. “You deserve a pretty speech — and I’ve tried — but I muddled it and yelled because I’m afraid…”
“Afraid?” Her brow creased but her lashes swept down to hide her eyes.
“Mmm.” He fell silent, heart pounding. She waited. He looked away and said, “The prospect of failing…I don’t respond well to fear.”
“Ah.”
“I don’t know how to tell you properly how I love you,’ he said in despair, “but I do. I simply do. That’s all.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say
you’ll marry me!” He blurted out in frustration.
She sat silent. He glanced at her, waiting, fidgeting. She studied her dog-filled lap. She stroked Attila’s neck.
He covered her hand. “If you intend to refuse me again, Miss Haversham, I’d rather have a quick cut than a slow slicing.”
“And if I do refuse you?”
He let out a sigh, “I suppose another man would take you at your word and stop plaguing you. But…” he muttered without finishing his sentence.
“But?”
“I won’t. Turn me down and I’ll have to follow you wherever you go till I convince you of my sincerity. I warn you, I am relentless. It’s a published fact,” he said with a wry smile. “I vow to pursue you till you accept me out of sheer exhaustion. An ignominious victory but I’ll do what I must. Don’t think I won’t.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t I just told you?” He harrumphed then caught himself. He looked at her and forced himself to remain calm. Her eyes glowed up at him.
In the silence, with her so close, the words rang clear through him. “I won’t let you go. I will not live without you. I cannot abide the idea. You’re my heart’s desire and comfort. If you’ll allow me, nymph, I will love you,” he concluded in a hoarse whisper, “more than words can express.”
Both sat silent, eyes downcast, petting Attila (much to the dog’s satisfaction). She shook her head slowly, her face hidden by her bonnet’s rim.
His heart sank. When she looked up at him, her eyes were turbulent seas spilling onto her cheeks.
“Blast it, why are you crying?” She shook her head again. At this, he didn’t hesitate. He took her head between his hands and tilted her dear face up to his.
“Prudence Haversham, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” He hovered over her lips, awaiting her answer. It took rather longer for her to answer than he would’ve hoped. The timpanist in his chest beat a drum roll until she did.
“I will, Your Grace,” she whispered sweetly.
He bore down and kissed her lips hard. “Jem,” he corrected.