“As you wish,” she replied with a soggy chuckle, “Your Grace.”
“Jem, Prudence. Jem,” he repeated, “Jem.” With each repetition, he kissed the tip of her nose, her eyelids, her forehead, her chin, her throat, her cheek, and just below her ear. “Jem.”
• • •
Finally, Prudence had to concede the duke was not behaving like a dutiful gentleman or a vengeful, inbred lunatic, but like a man in love. This proved completely reassuring.
“I love you, Jem,” she whispered just before he kissed her on the lips shamelessly before man and beast.
Everyone who lingered nearby, including the lady artists, witnessed the scandalous display of affection that concluded the duke’s successful proposal to Bath’s only female apothecary. Nannies carefully shielded their charges’ eyes from the debauchery while dragging them away. The lady artists, being freer thinkers, cooed and hummed.
Thus, on the rolling green pasture of Barton Field on a surprisingly mild late-summer day in Bath, the Duke of Ainsworth made one last illustration-worthy, public spectacle of himself and his new fiancée, Miss Prudence Haversham.
Chapter 34
In which just deserts are served.
Late September, 1816
In Bath, the duke and his new duchess sat side by side at an escritoire preparing personal notes to friends and relations before the official announcement of their nuptials appeared in the Times. (At his insistence, Prudence composed the notes and Ainsworth signed, sealed and franked them.) When she handed him her brief letter to Sir Oswald and Lady Dabney, the duke read it and leaned back. He scritch-scritched the quill’s barbs along his jaw while he thought. When Prudence became engrossed in the next, he cupped a hand over the page and wrote with quill flying. Satisfied, he snatched up the sander, dusted it and flicked it clean with a flourish. After folding it, he impressed the blue wax wafer with his signet ring to seal it and scrawled his signature in the corner in place of postage.
Prudence peeked at him for a moment and smiled, unaware that this was the famously implacable Horseman’s first act as her champion for life.
Days later at Treadwater in Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire, Lady Dabney broke the blue wax seal on the letter. She read it and blanched.
“What is it, my dear? Who’s written? What’s wrong?” Sir Oswald asked, growing alarmed.
She passed the letter to her husband with an unsteady hand.
The baronet read:
Dear Oswald and Margot,
Jem Maubrey and I have wed in Bath. I hope you wish us happy.
Prudence
Below this, His Grace, the Duke of Ainsworth scrawled:
We will be At Home in Grosvenor Square the second week of October. You may call on my duchess to beg her forgiveness or you may enjoy life in Town ever after without our acknowledgement. Ainsworth.
• • •
Lord Seelye and Lord Percy rode up to London shortly after Ainsworth married Miss Haversham in Bath. On a rare, almost clear, late September day, they decided to take a turn or two on Bond Street.
“Percy, why didn’t Clun come with us?”
“Had to go to Shropshire.”
“Did he say why?” Seelye asked, mystified. “Surely, Town when half empty is still more amusing than Shropshire when full!”
“Something about preparing The Graces for its new mistress.”
“Expect me to swallow that plumper?” Seelye chortled. “What’s he up to?”
“God’s truth, I vow.”
“Don’t say!” Seelye blinked in disbelief.
“S’pose it means he’s marrying the chit he haggled for last year,” Percy said.
“Which chit? Didn’t know he had one.” Seelye struggled manfully to assimilate the news that Lord Clun would be leg-shackled. Voluntarily.
“Earl of Morefield’s daughter. Full of juice, the earl, rich as Croesus.”
“Clun detests the Marriage Mart and vice versa,” Seelye cried. “However’d she meet him?”
“Didn’t.”
“Probably best to marry him without benefit of prior acquaintance,” Seelye joked.
“Mmm,” Percy hummed in agreement.
Epilogue
In which one thing inevitably led to another.
August 1823
One soporific summer morning, when the Maubrey twins were six years old, they eluded their nanny and snuck into the ducal bedchamber to bedevil their father and mother. The duke and duchess never closed the windows or the curtains around their massive bed, preferring to wake up seeing each other in the early morning light. The duke continued to flout established custom and slept with his wife every night, a scandalous habit the duchess endorsed despite mutterings in their wide circle of friends and acquaintances in the ton.
The two boys crept soundlessly to the duke’s side of the enormous bedstead. Their father lay sprawled naked atop the covers. He was a large, muscular man, excellent for climbing on and hanging from when awake and dressed. Their mother slept beneath the light bedclothes, tucked at his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder. But what caught and held the elder twin and heir’s attention was a glorious rendering of the Maubrey coat of arms on the pale skin of his Papa’s lower belly. A rampant lion faced right, a rampant stag faced left, bracketing the duke’s large, quiescent arbor vitae. His younger twin joined him and they studied the tattoo as best they could through their patriarch’s curly short hairs. It was, they agreed in hushed voices, very grand.
Later that morning, the twins insisted on seeing their parents before taking their walk in Hyde Park with Nanny and their younger sister and brother. The duke and duchess sat together at a corner of the morning room table as the boys tumbled in and mobbed first their mother and next their father with piping chirps of “G’morning!”
“Papa,” Phillip Maubrey, Marquis of Bevelstoke, began solemnly as the duke took a sip of tea, “when may I have the coat of arms drawn ‘round my willie?”
The duke choked. His duchess patted him on the back. Still, he turned a vivid shade of red causing the equally flushed duchess to slap his back in earnest.
“How’s that?” The duke demanded when his breathing returned to normal.
“The Maubrey coat of arms, the lion, the stag. You know.” The older boy huffed impatiently, parents being so very obtuse. “I want one like yours.”
“Me too, Papa!” Lord Augustus Maubrey declared as adamant as his twin. “But there wasn’t an oak tree in the middle of the shield, just your…”
“We’ll discuss it after your nap,” the duchess interrupted before dissolving into gurgles.
“Just so.” The duke looked grave and unruffled. It would never do to let the little heathens know anything was amiss, much less deliciously naughty.
“You think I’ll forget about it by then,” reproached the marquis.
“Not bloody likely,” the duke muttered as his wife giggled. Ainsworth glanced at his boys and again wondered at the heady sensation of three pairs of changeable lovat colored eyes peering at him. One pair of eyes danced with mirth; two pairs eyed him skeptically in an equally familiar way.
“I won’t forget it. Ever!” Lord Augustus insisted.
“When you’re older, I shall consider allowing you to have the tattoo,” the duke offered. “But it hurt a great deal, I warn you.”
“Did you cry?” His second son asked with sympathy.
The duke turned to his duchess, “Did I cry, madam?”
“Not at all,” she said, addressing her sons, “but your father is the bravest, most forbearing man I’ve ever met. Any other man would’ve carried on like a baby for weeks.”
“I’m not a baby,” the marquis declared. “I won’t cry.”
“If he won’t, neither will I,” his lordship said as stoutly.
“Blood will tell,” the duke approved. “In the meantime, you must take Attila on his walk, if you please.”
When the boys were well out of earshot, the duke turned to his duchess and growled, “Well and now wh
at?”
She patted his hand and smiled up at him. “They’ll forget all about it by nuncheon.”
“If they don’t, I’ll only allow them to have the bloody tattoo when they’ve met the women they wish to marry. The pain and weeks of bruising will prepare them for the experience of falling in love.”
Before she could retort, Jem hauled Prudence unceremoniously from her chair onto his lap where he wrapped his arms tightly around her and, though she squirmed mightily, kissed her breathless just to show her there were no hard feelings.
Well. Almost no hard feelings, for Prudence always had an untoward effect on his damned tattoo.
If you enjoyed The Duke’s Tattoo,
please post your review online.
Next…
The first of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse has found love.
Poor William Tyler de Sayre, Lord Clun, finds true love while hoping to avoid the catastrophe altogether by arranging a marriage to someone he’s never met. At the same time, Lady Elizabeth Chapin Damogan, whose father betrothed her to the baron without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ will be damned if she marries a man she’s never met, much less a man who refuses to consider the possibility of love.
An excerpt follows from:
The Baron’s Betrothal
An On-Again, Off-Again, On-again Regency Romance
by Miranda Davis
Misc. Historical Notes
No, tattoos were not unknown in Regency England:
In 1771, Lt. James Cook and the Royal Navy’s first Voyage of Discovery returned from the South Pacific with crewmembers, including the expedition’s botanist Sir Joseph Banks, sporting permanent native designs pronounced ‘tattow’ in Tahitian.
The word and art form caught on and spread rapidly first in ports among sailors, then more widely. By the end of the 19th century, tattoos were so popular among the gentry and nobility, the future King George V had himself tattooed with a ‘Cross of Jerusalem’ to commemorate his travels in the Holy Land. His sons followed suit while serving in the British Admiralty.
Yes, Chinese lived in Regency England:
The first ethnic Chinese recorded in Great Britain visited in 1685. In the 18th century, the East India Company not only imported goods from China but employed Chinese merchant sailors.
In 1805, a Chinese seaman known as John Anthony became the first Chinese native to become a naturalized British citizen by act of Parliament. In 1806, records show Chinese merchant sailors had settled in significant numbers in the port cities of Liverpool and London. A thriving Chinatown existed in London’s Limehouse district by the period in this story.
Finally, it all comes down to underpants. Is it corsets or stays? Or both?
In 1811, a Lady of Distinction published The Mirror of Graces, in which she writes, “we shall next speak of the stays, or corsets. They must be light and flexible, yielding to the shape, while they support it.” (pg. 78) She refers repeatedly to “stays or corsets,” as an abbreviated garment made to support the bust as well as a longer shaping garment. Therefore, since a Lady of Distinction made none between the terms ‘stays’ and ‘corsets’ in the period, this author chooses to use them synonymously as well.
Elsewhere she writes: “The Bosom, which nature has formed with exquisite symmetry in itself…has been transformed into a shape, and transplanted to a place, which deprives it of its original beauty…This hideous metamorphose has been effected by means of newly invented stays or corsets…in eight of ten [women we see] …the bosom is shoved up to the chin, making a sort of fleshy shelf, disgusting to the beholders, and certainly incommodious to the bearer.” (pg.96)
Hilarious, no? Definitely worth a read. Another favorite phrase: “the vestal veil,” in referring to the chemise.
About the Author
Miranda Davis has loved Regency romances since Mr. Darcy won Elizabeth Bennett’s heart. (Not that Miranda is 200 years old.) Miranda’s mother must take responsibility for her daughter’s love of Georgette Heyer.
At various points, she earned degrees from Smith College and Harvard University and worked at everything from scooping ice cream to big-time advertising. When she’s not busy with family along the Old Santa Fe Trail, she’s happily dreaming of Regency England or reading about it. Or knitting. Or working on the next story.
Another important individual contributed to this effort. Though he doesn’t read (that the author knows of), her hulking, brown, part-gargoyle dog graciously agreed to appear in The Duke’s Tattoo using a stage name, naturally. Pending negotiations, he may return for cameos in subsequent novels of this series. Or not. The author will not be extorted by said animal to fork over a large number of chewies to achieve his cooperation.
Special thanks to Robert Reid of 52Novels.com for his expertise, conscientiousness and hard work. Twice.
And to early Amazon buyers who left reviews, thank you for taking a chance on an ebook from an unknown, first-time author. I write in solitude in an old adobe house so realizing someone enjoyed what I’ve done (or didn’t) helps me. My thanks to: In the U.S.: ElizabethE, Old Latin teacher, suzzleb, MaryB, C. Eldridge “Wren lover,” Beth S., Linda Shellenberger, T.Galbraith, Bookwoman, Rene B., tarscoron, Nice Guy, Willread and most particularly Lady Wesley and New Yorker, whose re-reading of the revision was absolutely invaluable. And in the United Kingdom, thank you for your reviews’ forbearance, enthusiasm and gentle guidance: sara, celia, L. Storey, L. Shackleton, Mrs. Kathryn Miller, Old Romantic, Alison, Leb15, Job, Ollie, Kate Holloway, annie, Sofia “Salty,” Marielle Altimeter “Mermaid,” Sharon, Ilaview and B. Malone. Several thousand readers have bought it but you saintly souls took the time to share your encouragement and thoughtful criticism with other readers and helped me in the process. I hope to become a better writer with each book. So I greatly appreciate the feedback.
Several thousand readers have bought it in its first few months but you saintly souls took the time to give me your encouragement and well-considered criticism. I cannot thank you enough.
Miranda would love to hear from readers. Contact her at [email protected].
From The Baron’s Betrothal:
Chapter 1
In which an irresistible force meets an immoveable object.
Shropshire, England
Late October, 1816
She strode from the shadowy depths of the stable and gave William Tyler De Sayre, Baron Clun, a bold, calculating look. Actually, each sized the other up quite thoroughly. Lord Clun glared at the young woman before him. She was fetching in a wild-eyed, windblown, lunatic sort of way. The sort of way he apparently found appealing, given his lower body’s unambiguous approbation. Her green eyes crackled over him. She was tall for a woman, though her head reached no higher than his nose. Her figure, stuffed in what appeared to be a tight, long sack with sleeves, was trim and lush, not wispy or liable to break in his embrace. She stood before him arms akimbo, Diana the Huntress or perhaps Aphrodite. Clun purred.
• • •
Lady Elizabeth Chapin Damogan, only child of George Damogan, second Earl of Morefield, examined her potential savior closely. She noted with satisfaction that his enormous size alone would suffice to serve her purposes. He wore decent boots, well-made clothes and an expensive great coat. From neck up, however, he had a wild, berserker-like look about him and an even wilder mane of black hair that badly needed a trim. But he would do. She looked at him again. Better than do. He had a ferocious scowl, which he was employing on her to no effect. She was determined to regain her reticule, her money, her pearl earrings and her late mother’s gold locket.
Perhaps she ought to warn the gentleman what she intended. Then again, Lady Elizabeth concluded, he was just a temporary henchman. He need only stand beside her while she retrieved what the robbers took from her earlier that evening. Given his intimidating presence, physical harm seemed unlikely.
She heard a low rumble come from the craggy, hair-strewn summit of the mountain standing before her. She fixed him
with a stern look and asked, “Are you a gentleman, sir?”
His black brows shot up and his fathomless black eyes blinked. “At times.”
“Would you help a lady in distress?”
“That would depend.” His eyes glinted in a way that should’ve given the distressed lady pause, if only she’d taken the time to consider.
“Not very chivalrous of you to quibble, sir,” she reproached. “It will be nothing for you to help me. All I require is that you accompany me — for moral support — while I sort out a misunderstanding with a few men in the tavern.” She took a step back and to the side to regard him from that angle. “You’re an immense man, aren’t you? You needn’t say a thing to help me. In fact, I must insist you don’t.”
“I’m not…” he began.
“Off we go, then,” she interrupted. She hooked her hand through the crook of his thick arm and when she tried to give it a reassuring squeeze, could not help but whisper, “Oh!” She chose to overlook his smirk and chuckle as she spun him on his feet, adding, “Magnificent mount.”
• • •
During her inquisition, Clun held the reins of his favorite horse, a large gray with sculpted head and well-muscled chest. 4 As she tugged at him, Clun draped the reins over a stall board knowing Algernon would remain there until he returned. He had ridden at a leisurely pace this last leg of his journey, still he wanted his horse fed and watered.
“Where are the stablemen, Miss…?”
“No time for that now, good sir, come along. Just inside the tavern, if you please.” She pulled him, to the degree she could exert any influence on his great mass without his whole-hearted cooperation. “Must you dawdle? Come along!”
They entered The Sundew, a coach house where Clun had hoped to have a pint of ale and a hot meal on his way to The Graces, his residence of choice among the de Sayre estates. He ducked through the tavern door behind the harridan and allowed himself to be tugged to a table where four unkempt ruffians sat laughing and drinking.
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