The duke threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Really, Miss Haversham,” he teased, “you mustn’t fish for compliments.”
“I’m not fishing for anything,” she snapped, feeling only marginally more in control of herself. “I simply make objective observations.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, “Go on.”
In a low, emphatic voice, she ticked off points on her fingers: “Fact, a certain man crawls through my window and climbs on my bed. Repeatedly. Fact, this man generally wraps me up like three-day-old fish to avoid contact. And fact, whether he has mummified me or not, he’s snoring in my ear in no time. I may be a hopeless spinster but I’m not entirely ignorant of what normally happens between a man and a woman in bed.”
An eyebrow arched and he teased, “Not entirely?”
“Mostly but not entirely, Your Grace,” she said with badly ruffled dignity. “If it’s sleep you need, I shall mix you a draught.”
Could it be?
Basso profundo rumblings rose from deep in his chest. He leaned back and let loose delighted guffaws. Could Prudence Haversham be as frustrated by their chaste nights as he? The possibility made him chortle with greater glee. He peeped at her and laughed harder as she stared ahead, lips pursed, arms tightly crossed, a pattern card of offended femininity.
“I apologize, truly,” he wheezed out an octave higher than his normal voice. She wasn’t mollified. It took some time, and there were several unbecoming relapses, but the duke finally composed himself.
His Grace leaned toward her and possessed himself of her hand. Separating her index finger from the rest, he pinched it between thumb and forefinger. “Fact, not all of the man in question slept,” he began. “Some of him remained uncomfortably alert.” He took her middle finger next. “Fact, he mummified you for your sake not his, you goose.” Wiggling her ring finger by its tip, he concluded, “And fact, the man continues to behave infamously and has admitted he cannot help himself, which any half wit would realize indicates more interest rather than less. You, Miss Haversham, are anything but boring to me.” He retained her hand despite her efforts to snatch it from his grasp and brought it to his lips.
She stopped pulling away but declared, “Nonetheless, I will not concede the point.”
“No. Of course not,” he kissed her knuckles. “Honestly, I’ve forgotten the point, Miss Haversham, so you’re welcome to carry it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “This may amuse you, traipsing around like a sneak thief. If you’re discovered, everyone will wink and smile and say, ‘That rakish duke is at it again. Time for an illustration to commemorate his virility!’ Whereas I shall be branded forever for immorality I’m not guilty of.”
“Branded but innocent, I do sympathize.” He kissed the tip of each finger while he waited for her flustered reaction. She blushed to a deep rose shade. Satisfied, he stroked her hand open and placed a soft kiss in the center of her palm to earn a little gasp.
“That is to say…well…Yes, I see your point,” she stuttered delightfully. He so enjoyed having this disturbing effect on her. Through gritted teeth she added, “I-I-I have apologized to you for the horrid tattoo.”
“You have,” he replied amiably. He kissed her palm again.
“Do you accept my apology?”
“I do.” He kissed her bare inner wrist to make her breath catch, which it did.
“And yet you mention it again,” she choked.
“I still enjoy causing you consternation. It’s too great a temptation not to indulge.” He drew her between his open legs, until the soft, loose tendrils of her hair tickled his nose and her body brushed his thighs.
“Stop bothering me,” she said looking away.
“If you don’t wish to see me again,” he began, enjoying her shyness almost as much as her blushes, “you could lock your window.”
“You would just turn up here instead,” she grumbled. “Besides, I like fresh air at night.”
He tilted her face up and whispered, “You like me, Miss Haversham, and I like you.”
He leaned closer and she closed her eyes, pursed her lips and waited for his kiss. He hesitated. She waited. He caressed her cheek with his fingertips and inhaled the delicate scent of his thorny rose. And still she waited. Finally, he kissed the tip of her nose and flopped belly down on the table with a pained grunt.
“Oh!” She fumed, “Of all the insufferable…”
Hardly believing his ears, Ainsworth listened to Miss Haversham grumble to herself as if his gentlemanly restraint offended her. If she only knew how much that chaste peck on her nose cost him! Crushing a rock-hard erection beneath one’s body till it subsided was the least of his suffering. Hovering a hair’s breadth from her lush lips, craving them, longing to taste her and not doing so, that was merely frustrating. Wanting desperately to be the one who awakened her passion yet denying himself, that was infernal torture.
Ainsworth almost succumbed to temptation, unstrung by her closeness and her intoxicating scent, but he fought hard for self-control and won. Now, in thanks for that Herculean effort, she fussed and muttered in a temper. She banged about in the treatment room, opening and closing drawers loudly, thumping down jars of salve.
“Why you are reputed to be a rakehell, I cannot conceive.”
He turned his head, his voice dangerously quiet, “Your point is?”
“I find you quite prudish.”
“Prudish,” he repeated.
“I’m not some naïve schoolroom miss,” she blurted out. “And yet…”
“And yet, Miss Haversham?” He gritted out and shifted awkwardly on the table to glare more directly at her.
“You’re a proper prig with me!”
“I’m a gentleman because you’re a maiden.”
“I’m a woman of seven and twenty, I’ll have you know.”
“And you look away when I remove my boots,” he retorted. “You blush fire red when I take off my waistcoat and,” he added with growing exasperation, “you would have spasms if I were to remove my breeches, Miss Haversham.”
“I would not,” she retorted, feeling her traitor cheeks heat up.
“Fine, then breeches off,” he barked and rolled to sit up, his hands on the top button of his bulging falls.
“Your Grace!” She threw up a hand to cover her eyes. “You are no gentleman!”
“I bloody well am, Miss Haversham, much to my discomfort.” He left his breeches buttoned and lay down stiffly. “Shall we?”
Under her breath she muttered, “Obnoxious, arrogant, boorish…” and worked the duke’s mending shoulder till he yelped.
Chapter 20
In which our hero and heroine waltz across the Rubicon.
Irritated, frustrated and confused, the duke left Miss Haversham to her own devices for an eternity. The following week, he approached Lady Abingdon and Miss Haversham in the ballroom shortly after they arrived at the Upper Rooms. He bowed with formal correctness and asked the dowager countess to dance a country set.
Lady Abingdon laughed with delight, “I’m all atwitter to be so honored, Your Grace! You’re too kind to an old woman.”
Ainsworth bowed politely to Miss Haversham as he led Lady Abingdon away to join the dance. Well he knew to keep his face blank. He dared not reveal any feelings for the little apothecary in the dowager’s company, especially because they alternated between lust and murder.
Unfortunately for the duke, his caution was for naught. Lady Abingdon caught the scent and began hounding him. Though rotund, she was so light on her tiny feet, she could mind the dance and undertake a relentless inquisition for the entire half hour they partnered. The dance brought them together often as they wove in and out of the figures. He knew from experience she would not question him directly, but rather would wheedle and winkle information from him at each close pass. This was a society matron’s version of death by a thousand cuts: to torture a fellow until her curiosity was satisfied and he was left bloodless and twitching.
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The duke girded his loins and prepared to bleed.
“What keeps you in Bath in the middle of the Season, Ainsworth?”
“You suggested I take treatment.”
“You’ve found Miss Haversham helpful?”
He hummed his assent but became distracted. Although Lady Abingdon was likely to notice, he hazarded a look over her head to find Miss Haversham. Having spotted her, he continued to glance in her direction as often as the dance allowed. Only his eyes moved though, he made damned certain to keep the rest of his expression blank.
Lady Abingdon began probing his intentionally bland demeanor with her damnably sharp mind. “She looks quite well, doesn’t she?”
His eyes strayed back to where Miss Haversham sat incongruously among the matrons, chatting easily right and left. Hundreds of candles in the six-tiered chandeliers burned high overhead. The candlelight darkened her hair to rich sable and gilded her luminous skin.
“She looks radiant,” he murmured, momentarily forgetting his nonchalance.
“I’ve read of your amorous exploits, Ainsworth, and find them hard to credit. You were such a shy little boy.”
“Was I?”
“Very. But then I always say those who speak little feel much. And you were a silent, watchful boy. Not still. A perpetual motion machine, flinging yourself here and there, climbing trees like a chimpanzee, riding horses like a Turkoman…so very busy. But very quiet.”
“Practically mute, or so I’ve been told.” As he spoke, the duke’s eyes found Miss Haversham again.
“I see how you look at her, as if you’ve not had a meal in weeks. Don’t think to trifle with her!” Lady Abingdon commanded a bit breathlessly.
Ainsworth’s attention snapped back to his partner. Her warning stung. He raised an eyebrow as if to indicate how ridiculous she was and hoped it would convince her. For good measure, he added, “And I’ve noticed that all my mother’s cronies accuse me of looking longingly at marriageable females while in their company. It’s wishful thinking, ma’am, nothing more.”
“As for Miss Haversham,” the dowager countess continued undeterred, “she would make any man a wonderful wife but she would never do as your duchess.”
“No?”
“Her brother’s a minor baronet, very minor. The wife’s altogether too forward.”
“But she is nothing of the sort,” he answered. “Nor is she close to her brother, I believe.”
“Is that so?” She slanted a measuring look at him.
“As you well know, Lady Abingdon,” he replied with caution. He feared he’d said too much already.
The dance separated them but the matron continued her poking and probing when she rejoined him, “I grant you, she has graceful manners and natural poise.”
“She does.” And eyes like a riptide. And a teasing disposition that makes her irresistible to tease in turn. And a laugh that quenches a thirsty soul…Oh, bloody hell! Her ladyship eyed him as if he were mooning over the spinster like a besotted schoolboy, which he most certainly was not.
Lady Abingdon continued, now winded, “Her father was gentry but an eccentric gentleman. Her mother, however, was third daughter of an earl and very good ton. Wonderful woman. Yet I assume you would not consider Miss Haversham an eligible parti with that connection alone.”
Again the dancers parted, circled and returned, the dowager countess leaned close and whispered, “And she’s an apothecary! Ainsworth, really! Will she do?”
He said nothing.
“Ah well. I expect you’ll do just as you please, won’t you?”
He felt her keen eyes skewer him as he said, “Without a doubt.’ His gaze returned to Miss Haversham.
With a little smirk, she panted, “Well, scamp, I’ve said what I intended.”
As if by design, the dance concluded. Her ladyship leaned heavily on Ainsworth’s arm as he led them back to Miss Haversham. His heart lurched as her laughing eyes met his and she smiled.
How long, he wondered, would she smile at him? Sterling had written the duke with distressing news.
“Ainsworth, thank you! Quite delightful.” Lady Abingdon said breathlessly, patting his arm. “You must ask Miss Haversham for the next. Having toiled so gallantly with me, you deserve a fresh partner. You wouldn’t mind, would you, dear?”
“I suppose not,” Miss Haversham said and looked at Lady Abingdon with concern, “It would be nice.”
That word in that tone nettled him like a burr in his boot. He led her away. “‘Nice?’ Miss Haversham, you damn with faint praise.”
“You would prefer that I treat you as the second coming of Christ, Your Grace?”
“No. But there’s a happy medium between scant tolerance and worship.”
“Very well. It will be quite nice,” she peeped up at him. “Better?”
“Much,” he said with a lopsided grin. “Perfect.” She rewarded him with another of her flustered, startled glances.
Ainsworth bowed slightly as they faced one another during the opening strains of a waltz. He slipped his hand to her waist and reeled her in close. His other hand held hers lightly. Though they both wore gloves, the contact exhilarated him. Surely she felt the crackling energy pulse up her arm as he did. When he glanced down at her, though, she seemed perfectly self-possessed, even aloof.
More provoking was her silence. Here in his arms was the one partner with whom he was eager to speak yet she held her tongue. Instead, he watched her lose herself in the music. She leaned back into his embrace, her eyes closed, head tilted back to expose her silken neck. As they danced, she grinned like a young girl. She intoxicated him.
• • •
As the duke led Prudence onto the dance floor, the previous day’s mortification rushed back. Her cheeks combusted. Yesterday, he refused to kiss her. She stood within inches of the man, puckered up like a prize idiot, and he balked. Tonight, he preferred to dance with the dowager countess and only partnered her because Lady Abingdon made avoiding it impossible.
The duke watched her in that focused, disconcerting way he had, to unnerve her because doing so amused him. Provocative man! He would not succeed. This was Prudence’s last calm thought for the next four and a half minutes.
Once the music began, all was a delirious blur. Prudence never felt her feet at all! He swept her around him and down the room among the other dancers with consummate skill. As a little girl, this was how she imagined ballroom dancing would feel. If she faltered, as she must’ve, she was blissfully unaware of it. In his arms, she floated. She didn’t wonder at his agility or physical strength, she felt his muscles pulse and flex with perfect control. He seemed keenly aware of his surroundings, yet moved effortlessly on his own chosen trajectory. He probably fought with similar economy of motion.
“What color are your eyes, Miss Haversham?” He interrupted her reverie.
“Pardon?”
“Your eyes,” he repeated patiently as if to a child. “What color would you say they are?”
“I believe my eyes are a dull shade of blue gray or gray blue,” she replied. The irksome man would not succeed in toying with her, she vowed. She wouldn’t play fool again. She was tired of providing his entertainment while he recuperated in Bath.
“Blue perhaps, gray sometimes, but never dull,” the duke mused. “In contemplation, they favor blue, when laughing, they’re decidedly greenish blue, a lovely shade of lovat. And when you’re provoked, they’re steel gray. Why do you blush?”
“You delight in discomposing me, Your Grace. I’d wondered why but now I comprehend. You provoke me in an experiment to investigate my odd eyes.”
“I do find your reactions to provocation satisfying,” he chuckled.
She frowned and looked away. “Will you be returning to London soon, Your Grace?”
“Would you like that, Miss Haversham?”
“Until just now, I had no strong preference,” she retorted.
“And now?”
“At the moment, I’m si
mply making small talk, Your Grace.”
“Well, I have to return on a personal matter. Will you miss me, nymph?”
“If one can miss a toothache after the tooth is extracted, then yes, I suppose I shall,” she said, fully intending her impertinence.
“Impudent baggage!” He murmured with a deep rumble that moved seismically up through her body.
Drat the man and her traitor body! At each turn, he held her much too close and rather than resist, her body seemed to melt in his embrace and mold itself to him. Every time his leg brushed between her thighs, sweeping the fabric of her gown around them both, her body thrilled at the contact. It was a new, utterly inappropriate, decadently delicious sensation that inflamed her cheeks.
She had surely blushed more in the past few weeks than she had in her entire previous life. Perhaps the unaccustomed and excessive blood flow to her face explained the repeated bouts of dizziness she suffered in his presence. His absence would at least cure her of these symptoms of vertigo. It was a consolation that left her quite morose.
After the duke escorted Prudence to her seat, he made his excuses and took himself off.
“A fine man, Ainsworth. Makes a fine duke,” Lady Abingdon remarked, her color and breath improved somewhat by rest.
“Yes.”
“But he needs to take a wife soon. It was his late mother’s dearest wish that he wed without delay and fill his nursery,” her ladyship cast an inquisitive glance her way. “He’s quiet but quite charming, don’t you think?”
“No. Not on either count. He delights in discomforting me and talks my ears off to accomplish the task,” Prudence replied.
They watched Ainsworth dance with Lady Jane Babcock, who beamed up at him and tittered as he smiled in return.
“Obviously, he saves his charm for more appropriate ladies,” Prudence said with more bitterness than she intended to reveal. She added quickly, “But that’s as it should be.”
“Make no mistake, my dear. He’s indiscriminate with his charm. I find it more telling whom he chooses to vex.”
Prudence shrugged.
“Ah, the perversity of youth,” Lady Abingdon sighed to herself. “To deny the obvious because the denial makes one miserable.”
The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order Page 14