The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order

by Miranda Davis

  “Pardon?” She peeked over at him briefly then resumed her rigid, prone position.

  “Never mind,” Ainsworth barked.

  “I’m not being noble, it’s the truth and I would swear to it,” she replied. “Don’t forget, Your Grace, I believe it’s my right to have the evidence of my crime presented in court. Imagine how interested the press will be.”

  “What the devil! Is this some of your sincere regret? Threatening me with further humiliation?”

  She turned her head toward him and said, “In all fairness, you threatened me first.”

  They glared at one another and the tense silence lengthened. Finally, the duke scrubbed a hand over his eyes and said, “So I did. Well, what am I to do with you now?”

  She looked as if she’d eaten a lemon, peel and all. In the next instant, her eyes snapped open wide and she sat up. “How did you get into my room? I lock the doors downstairs.”

  “Climbed the ivy.” The duke gestured toward the open window.

  “Did you!” Her soon-to-be-martyred-to-a-satyr expression vanished and her lips curved into a ravishing smile, “You climbed the ivy, Your Grace?”

  “What of it?” He prowled restlessly around the dark room.

  “Why that’s marvelous! I’m astonished! Any sharp pain? Soreness?”

  Ainsworth stopped in his tracks, rolled and flexed his shoulder. “Some tenderness, why do you ask?”

  “Don’t you see? You used both arms!” She clapped her hands with delight, “Oh well done you, well done!”

  He stopped to consider this. Absent-mindedly, he ran a hand through his tousled hair. Ivy leaves fell like confetti as if to celebrate his accomplishment.

  She gave Ainsworth another heart stopping, moonlit smile and gushed, “Your progress is so gratifying. It’s simply spectacular!”

  As are you, little nymph.

  He prowled the room, suddenly restless for an entirely different reason. He didn’t know what to do about this enchanting sprite or how to forestall his ever more obvious physical reaction to her. This conversation, this encounter from start to finish, left the duke at sixes and sevens.

  There’d been no quaking or quailing, no begging for mercy, no hysterics, and no moment for his magnanimity after a great deal of her tearful groveling. This was what he had rehearsed in his mind: Intimidation, then thunderous accusation, followed by devastating rebuke, manly tolerance of her emotional collapse and, he now allowed, perhaps grudging forgiveness.

  How in blazes had forgiveness slipped into his thoughts? He glanced at her and found she still smiled at him. Granted, her enthusiasm was endearing. Her face glowed beatifically. She was nothing short of breathtaking, blast her.

  In an instant, his intentions underwent such material alteration that turning her out of home and business seemed…well, draconian. Perhaps, he would let her stay on, lease the properties back from him on easy terms, that sort of thing. Sterling would know how to manage it.

  “Your Grace?” She looked at him quizzically, her head tilted to one side. A smile lingered on her plush lips while she examined him closely. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am. Don’t be impertinent,” he snapped, ending his reverie to reassert himself. In two steps, he reached her bedside to tower over her.

  “Your Grace!” She cried and ducked under the covers.

  Better.

  He hovered there, staring down at her, smelling her sleep-warmed, rose-infused skin, uncertain what to do with her.

  “I’m going to have to tuck you in,” he said gruffly and began shoving the counterpane, the thin blanket and the linen sheet well under her slim hips and legs.

  “You’re mummifying me.”

  “Yes.” He moved up to tuck in her arms and shoulders.

  “I cannot move my limbs!” She complained.

  “Mmm.” He worked quickly on her other side before he could think the better of it.

  “But why?”

  “For safety’s sake,” he explained. That was the God’s honest truth. He still couldn’t decide whether to strangle her or to gather her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Best he swaddled her until his emotions settled.

  “I promise not to lay a finger on you,” was her tart rejoinder to all his tucking and humming.

  He sat on the edge of the bed to yank off his boots. “Not my safety, nymph. Yours.” He gave the covers under her one last poke, “There.”

  This was definitely not the plan.

  He lay down on top of the counterpane that she lay beneath and turned to face her. The mattress sagged under his weight and she rolled toward him helplessly till her muffled body bumped against his chest, her face within inches of his.

  “Oof!”

  He chuckled.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “You’re not going to ravish me, are you.”

  “The mood has passed,” he grumbled.

  “I’m glad.” She wriggled away from him to lie face up.

  “By Jove, you unman a fellow, Miss Haversham!” She turned her head and raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps,” he mumbled, “I deserve it for making idle threats.”

  His lips were inches away from the graceful curve of her neck and a delectable hollow he noticed just below her ear. Sorely tempted, he breathed deep to calm himself and inhaled the natural sweetness of her clean skin and her scent. It was not just the soft, teasing whisper of flowers; it had a pleasing tart tang of something else. Delicious, he groaned.

  Of all the bloody, buggering, blasted luck.

  “You smell of roses,” Ainsworth said to distract himself, “and something more astringent.”

  “Clary sage. I blend essential oils of rose and Clary sage into a lotion,” the mummy beside him replied primly. “Both benefit the skin.”

  “The scent of a rose and its thorns,” he mused.

  “A lovely thought.”

  “A lovely fragrance.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “You’re most welcome, Miss Haversham.”

  She chuckled. “I, too, find formality relieves awkward social situations.”

  “Courtesy is the universal social lubricant,” he replied in kind.

  • • •

  The absurdity of their conversation under such scandalous circumstances bubbled up through Prudence. She must not giggle. No giggling! Only giddy girls giggled uncontrollably around handsome boys. She reminded herself that the immediate danger may’ve passed but she wasn’t safe from him yet. Not as long as the sensation of his hands under her body lingered, overheating her wherever he had touched her through the thin bedding. A chuckle escaped as she recalled their ridiculous conversation. She began to burble with mirth but coughed to disguise it.

  Making matters worse, the indecently handsome man who manhandled her lay sprawled next to her in her virginal bed. She struggled to remain calm but his much-too-masculine person was much, much too close. Bumping up against his chest almost undid her. Even now, his body’s heat penetrated the layers of bedding and heated her skin. The mass and weight of him, the soft look in his eyes, his mocking solemnity, his upturned lips, he threatened to overset her shaky equanimity completely. She fought hard for self-control, which naturally made uncontrollable giggles inevitable.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  She burst into paroxysms of giddy laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she gasped out. “I couldn’t possibly be!”

  “What’s wrong, Miss Haversham?”

  “You’re giving me spasms, Your Grace,” she choked out.

  “Why do ladies always say that to me?” He asked himself blandly while she sputtered and choked. “Are you all right, Miss Haversham?”

  “Ne-ne-ne-ever better.”

  “May I be of some assistance?”

  “Heavens, no! Please!” She snorted and collapsed completely. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Perhaps a glass of water?”

  “You must stop! If you don’t leave off for a bit, I’ll never recover my
breath,” she gasped. “Do you wish to kill me?”

  “I’ve considered it.”

  Miss Haversham sputtered, coughed and gasped more helplessly.

  • • •

  Ainsworth needed distraction. Her giddy shudders brought to mind having her naked, shuddering body in his arms. The thought left him painfully aroused.

  “We’re having a mild June, do you agree?” He moved away to let her recover her breath. “Better? He asked politely.

  “Much, thank you, Your Grace. I was close to suffocating,” she panted.

  “I’m relieved we averted tragedy,” he added solemnly.

  “Oh no, have mercy!” Her voice quavered with barely suppressed laughter.

  “I’ll spare you,” Ainsworth whispered. At that very moment, the duke was lost and she was entirely to blame.

  “You’ll want to leave now, won’t you?”

  Why did the hopeful note in her voice annoy him? “Not just yet,” he said, “I must be certain you’re out of danger. I won’t have your asphyxia on my conscience.”

  She began to huff and chuckle again but quashed it with great effort, “You’re too kind.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  After a deep inhale and slow, steady exhale, she said, “Very well. If you won’t leave, I’ll say good night, Your Grace.” She could only turn her face away from the duke, wrapped up tightly as she was in the bedclothes.

  “Sweet dreams, Miss Haversham,” he whispered.

  He lay there and marveled how this situation, so chaste yet so intimate, had stiffened him like an excitable schoolboy. Clearly, Miss Prudence Haversham in person caused an effervescence of the blood that left him lightheaded. Yet, when the dizziness subsided, her nearness soothed him like one of her salves. Under her influence, he forgot his tattoo, his fury and his revenge. His mind turned instead to more pleasant considerations: her eyes, her scent, her throaty laughter and her winsome smile.

  He drifted off to sleep without knowing it. While dozing, he tucked her well-muffled body close to his and slept so deeply that nothing disturbed his rest until he was elbowed sharply in the ribs.

  “Your Grace!” Prudence hissed, struggling within her swaddlings. “You must wake up!”

  He slowly came to his senses and realized where he was.

  She leaned close to whisper, “It’s nearly dawn!”

  In as hushed a voice, he teased, “Why are we whispering? It’s no secret, happens every day.”

  “Be serious,” she snapped. “You must go.”

  “Of course. My apologies, Miss Haversham,” he mumbled. “I’m not usually so a sound sleeper.”

  “No matter,” she said as she rolled, kicked and struggled to free herself completely. He slowly sat up on the opposite edge of the bed to pull on his boots. While his back was turned, she drew on a well-worn dressing gown over her night rail. Once shod, he started toward the open window and she darted after him.

  “You can’t climb back down!”

  “I can try.”

  “You’ll fall.” She grabbed his coat sleeve and added, “The roses bushes will kill you.”

  “I doubt your roses will succeed where the French army failed.” He slung one leg over the sill. “I promise not to impale myself on your roses.”

  “No, drat you! I’ll let you out downstairs. Walk inside the hedge to the orchard. There’s a gap that lets out on Great Pulteney Street. Hurry!”

  With a firm hand at his back, she pushed him out the bedroom door, down the stairs, through a small hallway and down several steps to the side door. Before leaving, Ainsworth turned on the threshold and found her hand pressed firmly against his chest. Pleased, he murmured, “Touch me that way and I may never leave.”

  Chapter 15

  In which our hero and heroine have second thoughts.

  Prudence prayed no one would see His Grace, the Duke of Ainsworth slinking away from her cottage in disordered clothes, grinning like a jingle brain. Fortunately, it was not yet full light, nor was it a market day, so the road through Bathwick would remain empty for some time. She stood in the doorway, her hand still warm from his back.

  Black sheep in truth! If only her brother Oswald had witnessed this scandalous scene. All the cruel things he said long ago would at last be justified.

  Ten years ago, Prudence had only wanted stay to out of the way during the inaugural house party at Treadwater, hosted by Sir Oswald Dabney and his ambitious wife Margot. Prudence retreated to the manor’s dusty, cobweb filled attic where she found fascinating detritus from generations of distantly related strangers. It had been irresistible to a bored, bright, curious girl of 16. For her explorations, she wore an old mobcap over her hair and an old dress to spare her few good ones.

  The ninth Duke of Ainsworth wobbled as he walked along an upstairs hall toward his guest room well in his cups when Prudence happened upon him. He smiled and she smiled shyly in reply. Then he fell upon her. At first, she feared he’d passed out but his hands were thorough in their groping of her bottom as he leant upon her. As she tried to fend him off, Lady Dabney came along. Her sudden appearance stayed the duke’s frisky hands but Prudence’s disarray and blushes condemned her in her sister-in-law’s bead-hard eyes. Prudence fled to her room in humiliation.

  Later, Sir Oswald told Prudence the duke insisted she flung herself at him like a randy maid. Prudence tried but failed to convince her brother of her innocence. Sir Oswald repeated ‘Shame on you!’ and punctuated this by slamming her door and locking it from the outside. The life she’d known ended that day.

  Recalled to the present, Prudence turned back inside. Time to dress and get on with the day. Mrs. Mason and Murphy would soon come to the cottage from the carriage house. After breakfast, she and Murphy would go to the apothecary shop and life would continue as if nothing had happened.

  Prudence settled uneasily into the day’s routine. The shop remained quiet until the Duke of Ainsworth appeared in the afternoon.

  Ignoring the shiver his arrival sent up her spine, Prudence looked up briefly and forced herself to return to writing at the counter. He approached the counter’s other side and leaned over to look at the foolscap on which she wrote. She signed her name with an elegant ladies’ hand. The initial P curved and circled gracefully, the H of her last name combined curvaceous and bold strokes, like a fine monogram.

  “You write beautifully when you choose to,” the duke remarked.

  She stopped writing, quill poised above the page. Without looking up at him, she sighed, “My mother taught me my letters. She thought I ought to write like a lady.”

  “But here your script is much plainer.” He pointed out another slip of paper, with clear block letters and symbols.

  “It serves my purpose. Instructions must be understood. Many of my customers cannot read so I must make it clear for whoever might read it to them.”

  “And the little suns and moons?”

  “Indicate morning or evening doses. I tell them what they need to know but some also need reminders. They know their numbers, so I can indicate one or two times a day, and how much, that sort of thing.”

  “Clever.” He watched her fold the paper with her fine, little hands. “I was hoping you might have a moment for me. I may’ve strained my shoulder.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” she muttered under her breath. “Murphy, escort His Grace to the treatment room, please.”

  Before Miss Haversham could follow the two men down the hall, Mrs. Mason bustled into the apothecary, pale as a ghost, and said, “Miss Haversham, there’s a letter you ought to read.” The housekeeper pressed the envelop into her hand.

  “Addressed to occupant, how odd,” Prudence said, turning it over.

  “That’s the least of it, Miss H. I assumed t’was misdirected or I wouldn’t have opened it.”

  “Not to worry,” she replied, opening the envelope to read:

  To whom it may concern

  In regard to the property, No. 11 Henrietta Stre
et, formerly owned by Sir Oswald Dabney, the new owner of this property wishes to inform you that your occupancy must end on or before the date, 1 September 1816. According to terms of the sale, the contents will convey. Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.

  Signed, J.M. Sterling.

  “What are we to do, Miss H.?”

  “There’s no mention of an option to lease the property. It must be an oversight. I shall write immediately to see what can be arranged. Don’t worry, Mrs. Mason. I shall put this to rights,” Prudence said with more conviction than she felt.

  • • •

  In the treatment room, Murphy helped the duke undress to shirtsleeves. Ainsworth settled himself on the upholstered table and the two men waited awkwardly through the long silence.

  Miss Haversham bustled in, pale but purposeful. “Can you move your shoulder, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, but it bothers me,” he complained. Murphy stayed in the treatment room, making it impossible for him to pursue the most bothersome topic of last night’s conversation: her impugning his brother’s honor.

  “Lie down, please.” He did so. Miss Haversham probed his shoulder.

  “Describe your pain. Is it sharp, dull or throbbing?”

  “Dull and throbbing,” he answered, welcoming her warm, soft hands on his body even through a shirt.

  “Good. Nothing’s torn. The soreness is muscle strain. You must refrain from exerting yourself in that way again.”

  “In what way?” He coaxed.

  “In whatever way caused your strain,” she bit out. “Don’t do it again.”

  “Ever?” Ainsworth asked. Murphy glared at the duke but he was enjoying himself too much to mind Mustachio.

  “Ever,” she repeated with added emphasis. “You’re lucky you didn’t do yourself serious injury.”

  “But Miss Haversham, I’m sorely tempted to exert myself again in precisely that way.”

  “I’ve given you my best advice, Your Grace. Ignore it at your peril.” Her expression was grim, her tone grimmer, implying he could expect a face full of boiling oil if ever he scaled her wall again for another midnight chat. Or, perhaps the letter she received soured her mood. He preferred to believe the latter.