The Tattooed Duke

by Maya Rodale

  Chapter 9

  In Which the Duke’s Reputation Precedes Him

  Later that evening

  The name had not left him all day, tripping off the tongue in three melodic steps. Tim . . . buk . . . tu. Like a poem, or a song, or a prayer.

  Wycliff had always wanted to go, ever since hearing stories as a lad and aching to escape the confines of Wycliff House or school. He thought about it in Tahiti and talked about it on the way back to England. In fact, he retuned only to plan for this expedition. And now the French dangled an incentive other than glory. Ten thousand pounds! Pity he couldn’t get that up front.

  Pity Burke was after it as well. Some friend. But then again, theirs was a friendship based on rivalry—forever attempting to outdrink, outsmoke, outfight, and outwench the other. The whole world was a stage upon which they enacted a constant battle for superiority. Burke had abandoned him in Tahiti for a year. Wycliff once stranded Burke in a leper colony for a week.

  Now both had set their sights on Timbuktu.

  Even after ten years abroad, the wanderlust had possessed Wycliff the minute he stepped off Burke’s ship onto the London docks. There was something so stifling about England, and the rain and the history and the shadow of his father and all the other Dukes of Wycliff who had drunk, debauched, and died before him.

  He did not want to live like that. Nor do it with his hands tied and manacled by debt.

  Timbuktu was his chosen destination.

  And this—this ballroom, this society affair, this orgy of wealth and decadence and gossip—this was some circle of hell he had to pass through on his journey.

  “I hope to God they still serve brandy at these routs,” he said. It’d been an age since he attended a society function.

  Burke grinned. “No one would come if they didn’t.” They pushed through the crowd, accepting nods of greeting (Burke) and stares (Wycliff). No one greeted him or remarked on how long it had been or inquired about his travels. Apparently he was too bizarre to even converse with. A frown tugged at his mouth.

  Wycliff hadn’t thought how strange he must appear with his long hair and the earring. It occurred to him now, as he sauntered through the ballroom, that they must be imagining his tattoos and thus picturing him in some state of undress.

  No wonder all the maidens and matrons seemed flush and flustered as he passed. He couldn’t help it; he grinned.

  While sipping his brandy, he savored the memory of explaining a London ball to the women in Tahiti. Then he taught them to waltz on the white sand beaches, right into the surf.

  But now, in the ballroom of Lord and Lady Something-or-Other, he likened it to shark-infested waters.

  They circled slowly, in tightly controlled circles. They eyed him through narrowed eyes, with their long pointed noses sniffing for weakness. Occasionally one would bump up against him in warning.

  One particular shark already had a taste for him, and Wycliff saw her glide through the swarms in his direction. The other guests stepped aside to allow this man-eating lady clear access to her prey.

  Her hair gleamed, golden, in the candlelight. Gold, like Timbuktu. He’d do well to remember that.

  That crimson pout, scowling at him now—he it knew it intimately. Once upon a time that mouth had alternated between begging for his touch and insulting him with name-calling. She was a fiery one. She was all the churning, roiling energy of an ocean storm fiercely contained in a corset and silk.

  “Lady Althea Shackley,” he drawled when she paused before him. Her green eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed pink. “It’s been an age.”

  She smiled, and stripped off her gloves. With her bare hand she slapped him soundly on the cheek.

  The ballroom immediately fell silent.

  She turned on her heel and stalked away with a swish of silk skirts and her head held high.

  The crowd, en masse, fixed their attention upon him. With a mocking smile, the Tattooed Duke of Wycliff raised his glass in toast.

  “To England!” he called out. Many were forced to raise their glasses with him in toast to their country—even though he was the most foreign-looking and -acting one among them, title notwithstanding. He was a duke, so anyone who gave a whit about titles and rank could not refuse.

  In that moment, Wycliff understood: he wasn’t just unfashionable, he bordered on treasonous. For a man of his stature to adopt the customs of another culture suggested that England wasn’t supremely superior after all. He had betrayed his country and it could not be tolerated.

  “To the King,” he stated, raising his glass again. The ballroom guests followed in kind. A smug smile tugged at his lips—how it must pain them all to show solidarity with the treasonous duke who kept his hair long, wore an earring, bore tattoos across his sun-browned chest, and drove scorned women to public acts of violence in his presence. He was that kind of man.

  They didn’t call them the Wicked Wycliffs for nothing.

  His cheek actually tingled, still. Lady Althea had not held back. It was a well-deserved, exquisitely timed slap. It reminded them all of the scandalous circumstances in which he had fled the country.

  Lady Althea paused in her exit to look scornfully over her shoulder.

  “And to the Queen,” he said, raising his glass to her. Lady Althea turned and walked away.

  Chapter 10

  Starry Night

  After his short-lived foray into high society, Wycliff returned home. That, too, depressed his mood. The evening had been trading one gilded cage for another when every inch of him craved wide-open freedom.

  He took a bottle of brandy up to the roof, where he might lean over the railing, gaze at the stars, breathe fresh air and otherwise pretend that he was at sail on the ocean. But the house was still below him—no gentle rolling, as on the sea—and the damned London smog ruined the view.

  He could not leave. Because . . .

  One required funds to launch an expedition. He was utterly without funds. He had even stepped over a creditor sleeping on the front stairs. In the morning he’d have a word with Saddler about at least pretending to lend some dignity to this unconventional household.

  If he were a typical duke, Wycliff thought idly, he would marry a wealthy bride and be done with it. Upon consideration, a rich wife was the answer to his problems in one neat little female package with a bow on top. She would provide money for him to leave and mind the estate while he was gone.

  Yet between The London Weekly’s outrageous column and Lady Althea’s public and violent attack, a rich wife attaching herself to the likes of him was a remote possibility.

  Or, he could purchase a one-way ticket and gallivant from port to port, trading one adventure for another with no grand plan and nothing to rely on but wit and charm, as he had done all these years.

  He could be at sea this time tomorrow night. His heartbeat quickened.

  What stopped him? His desire was for something greater than merely being on a boat, much as he loved the salty sea air and crashing sound of waves. It was time for a real challenge to put him to the test. It was time for a success; to make his mark on the world as his own self, not just “one of those Wicked Wycliffs.”

  Timbuktu. Undiscovered, dangerous, and with a promised prize of money and glory. An uncharted land to claim. It was the perfect adventure.

  There was, possibly, the option of begging passage along with Burke’s crew. But that wasn’t what he wanted either: Wycliff wanted to lead, not to follow. He wanted to forge his own damned path in the world.

  He could be the first man to make it there and back.

  Wycliff turned at the sound of someone else joining him on the roof. The door’s hinges were not well oiled. Another problem for the list: debt, decay, squeaky roof door.

  “Your Grace?” A female voice cut through the darkness. He knew it belonged to Eliza, the maid he’d been ogling at every opportunity. The other day, he’d seen her bent over on all fours, scrubbing the foyer floor. He had to review the account bo
oks for an hour to get himself back to rights.

  Riveting stuff, the account books.

  And the other night . . . He’d been drinking that evening, but hadn’t been truly intoxicated until his lips touched hers. It was a reckless, impulsive, idiotic thing to do, kissing the housemaid in the foyer at midnight. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

  She should not be there, on the roof, in the dark, with him.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice rough to his own ears.

  “I heard something. It was you, I presume. But I thought I ought to investigate,” she explained, coming to stand beside him against the railing.

  There was always one little moment—blink and quite possibly miss it—when everything just shifted and the whole course altered. This was that moment. Wycliff dukes and their maids were notorious through the ages.

  Part of him argued that it was all the permission required for him to bend her over and take his pleasure.

  But he craved more than that—to make love rather than spend himself with any warm and willing female body. He also was desperately trying not to be a typical Wycliff, actions of the other evening notwithstanding.

  And yet, this pretty, sassy girl ventured up to the roof to investigate a strange noise in the night. Even alone up here with a notorious scoundrel like him, she was perfectly poised. She was either a complete ninny or the kind of woman he could fall in love with.

  The moment. When everything changed. Because he was a Wycliff, and a reckless adventurer, he handed her the bottle of brandy.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied so primly. Then she took a proper sip from the bottle and handed it back to him. No coughing, or sputtering, or tears. Remarkable.

  “I take tea with Mrs. Buxby every afternoon,” she explained.

  “Glad to hear some things never change,” he remarked.

  “What brings you up to the roof, may I ask?” she said to him, rather boldly. Then again, he had just invited her to drink with him. The boundaries were already blurred.

  “You’re very inquisitive for a maid,” he replied. “Impertinent is more like it. It’s really none of your business what I am or am not doing on the roof. I could fire you for such insubordination.”

  “I know, Your Grace. I am horribly forward.” She appeared to be contrite, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was an act. Yet he found he enjoyed her company and did not care to spoil this moment. Fine night air, good brandy, a pretty girl. A man could do worse.

  “I am going to tell you anyway,” Wycliff said, “because I’ve been drinking and because you will probably never find employ elsewhere after working here, so I’ll probably have to keep you.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” A smile played on her lips. Adorable.

  “I came up here so that I might see the stars and be reminded of my time at sea. But this damned smog is in the way.”

  She looked away from him and up at the night sky.

  “There are a few,” she pointed out. He followed her gaze up, over the rooftops, in the direction of the moon.

  “Yes but out on the ocean you can see a million. Ten million. Have you ever been outside of London, Eliza?”

  “Once, to Brighton,” she said flatly.

  “Was it a pleasant trip?”

  “I was swept away by the splendor of the pavilion, the sea air, the romance of holiday . . . The whole thing was a mistake.”

  “I confess I am intrigued,” he murmured, leaning toward her. Women often commented on how he towered over them. Some found it intimidating, others irresistible. Eliza did not pull away.

  “You shall remain intrigued,” she replied pertly before hastily adding, “Your Grace.”

  He grinned and held out the brandy bottle to her. “More?”

  “Please.”

  After she drank, he took the bottle back and had another swig himself. They fell into a comfortable silence, both looking over the city or up at the few visible stars. Wycliff was acutely aware of her lithe female form just there, beside him, on this secluded rooftop.

  She broke the silence to ask what he was thinking.

  “I do not make it a habit to confide in my housemaids,” he said, mainly to remind himself that this was not done.

  “Of course not,” she agreed. “But you’ve been drinking.”

  Seeing as he did not put much stock in ducal this or ducal that, it seemed ridiculous to stand on ceremony and refuse to have a pleasant conversation with a pretty girl who could drink brandy like a man.

  “The crux of the matter is that . . . I know that I belong here, as Wycliff. But I want to be out there.” He gestured grandly to the rooftops and the sky and the whole wide world on the outskirts of London.

  Eliza followed his gesture and knew that he meant the farthest corners of the world. She knew, too, how he paced the floors of Wycliff House and rattled the bars on his cage—lovely as it was—in search of a way out.

  “You are remarkably self-aware,” she said. He was trouble and a bit spoiled, but he wasn’t stupid. And he was handsome, ridiculously so. She did her best to act collected and calm, as if she sipped brandy on rooftops with dukes all the time.

  But she was acutely aware of the intensity of her heartbeat. Her gaze kept returning to his mouth. Her thoughts kept imagining her lips against his.

  “As we’ve said, I’ve been drinking. But I can’t go out there, because I haven’t the funds.”

  “That is a problem,” she agreed. One he would hopefully tell her more about. She heard Knightly’s voice in the back of her thoughts: Get the story. Get the story.

  “The dukedom is wasted on Wycliff men,” he carried on. “Look at me: drinking, wishing and plotting to leave the country, and confiding in a housemaid.”

  Eliza took the bottle from his grasp and took another sip, hoping the burn of the brandy would keep her from blurting out that she was more than a mere housemaid. She was a writer—a published writer. She was a good friend to her fellow Writing Girls, she kept secrets and dealt with problems and had her own wishes and dreams.

  She was more than a woman with a broom and an apron. But because the duke thought that was all she was capable of, it lessened any regret she might feel for what she wrote about him.

  But still, it begged the question of why she cared what he thought of her. That was something to be considered another time. Unless it was fodder for her articles, it wasn’t worth her attention.

  Get the story. Get the story.

  “You wish to avoid your fate,” she summarized.

  “I suppose that is one remarkably accurate and succinct way to put it,” the duke answered. Again, she wished to point out that she was a writer, that she had a way with words.

  “But I want . . . what I’m not supposed to want,” he said, and sipped from the bottle. “Tonight, at the ball, Lady Althea slapped me clear across the face in front of everyone.”

  “The audacity,” Eliza murmured, when instead she wished to ask what he’d done to deserve it.

  Julianna probably witnessed it with unabashed glee and had already written an entire installment of “Fashionable Intelligence” relating the scene for those who had missed it—the Elizas of the world, the housemaids and the working class and the ones who were never on the invitation list. Being friends with a duchess and a countess who never missed a party and who always had new dresses was hard sometimes.

  But then again, they could never do this: go off in disguise and spend the evening looking at the stars and drinking brandy with the most intriguing, handsome, scandalous duke in town. She found herself leaning closer and breathing him in.

  “I deserved the slap, of course. But that incident, coupled with that scathing newspaper column . . .” If he saw her shrink back, he did not show it. “ . . . has made it impossible for me to stay, and impossible for me to escape. I feel as if I do not belong here, yet England and the dukedom own me and I cannot leave.”

  “Why did you even return?” Eliza asked.


  “Honestly? I was bored of Tahiti and another option presented itself.”

  “I am tempted to slap you myself,” Eliza remarked.

  “Burke had stranded Harlan and myself there a year earlier with some noble idea of teaching us a lesson about being careful what we wish for. I knew that the time was coming for me to own up. I just didn’t expect it so soon, so suddenly. I still remember laying on the beach and seeing Burke’s ship on the horizon . . . and then him delivering the news that my father had died and I was now Wycliff. I thought I ought to return.”

  “You are redeemed. Slightly.”

  “How kind of you to say so. I do have a sense of duty,” he said. There was a slight smile on his lips, and it reached his eyes, too. He reached out to push a wayward strand of hair back from her face. His fingertips brushed across her cheek then, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes and savor it.

  “We should go before I ravish you on the rooftop,” the duke stated.

  Eliza’s eyes widened and she could feel a coy smile forming on her lips. When had she ever been coy? Or a flirt? That one week in Brighton, perhaps . . .

  “Go,” he commanded, sounding very ducal. She had been dismissed. “And do not open your door if I knock.”

  Chapter 11

  In Which the Writing Girls Visit the British Museum

  Sunday

  It was Sunday afternoon, Eliza’s half day off, and she was spending it at the British Museum with her fellow Writing Girls and Sophie’s younger, troublesome sister-in-law, Lady Charlotte. They all paused before a particularly chiseled stature of a man—a god, surely—who was utterly unclothed save for one strategically placed leaf. A very large leaf, one might add.

  “Oh my goodness,” Julianna murmured. Her lips curved into a delightfully wicked smile.

  “Indeed,” Sophie agreed in the same tone, and then she admonished her sister-in-law: “Charlotte, close your eyes.”