by Maya Rodale
Eliza knelt by the tub to see the tattoos, but her attention was also drawn to the scar she noticed on his upper lip, and the stubble upon his jaw. He had a clean, soapy scent that was at odds with the air of danger around him.
His head was close to hers, his mouth only inches away.
She wanted to touch his skin, to know if the tattoos left it rough or smooth. To feel the hard muscles of his arms and his chest underneath her palms. For The Weekly, of course.
As if the duke could read her mind, he took her hand and rested it on his bicep, just above where the tattoo began.
With a glance at him for permission, she traced her fingers along the lines—some straight, some jagged, some swirling up and around the curve of his shoulder and leading her down to the expanse of his torso. She splayed her palm across his chest and felt his hot skin and pulsing heartbeat.
The duke’s hand closed over hers.
The candles were still wavering, throwing shadows. Steam rose up from the water, making the air hot and humid between them. His lips parted—to kiss her or rebuke her for being so forward?
Her own lips opened to tell him that she was not that kind of girl. Yet Eliza was in the habit of ignoring common sense and better judgment when it came to satisfying her curiosity, chasing a story or embracing adventure. Or men. She had secrets and stories to prove it.
Jenny, the other housemaid, chose that moment to enter the room. There was a sigh of relief—hers or the duke’s? Eliza snatched her hand away. The duke leaned back and closed his eyes as she stood and moved away from him to speak to the other maid.
“I was just checking if His Grace was finished,” Jenny said in a whisper. “We’ll have to remove the tub and water tonight.” Then her eyes widened as she noted the duke’s tattoos as well. “And you’ll need to turn down the bed, and all that. And have a care … you know his reputation.”
Intrigued? Discover more about The Tattooed Duke at http://www.mayarodale.com/.
An Excerpt from
SEDUCING MR. KNIGHTLY
PROLOGUE
* * *
Young Rogue Crashes Earl’s Funeral
OBITUARY
Today England mourns the loss of Lord Charles Peregrine Fincher, sixth Earl of Harrowby and one of its finest citizens.
The Morning Post
St. George’s Church
London, 1808
DEREK KNIGHTLY HAD not been invited to his father’s funeral. Nevertheless, he rode hell for leather from his first term at Cambridge to be there. The service had already commenced when he stalked across the threshold dressed in unrelenting black, still dusty from the road. To remove him would cause a scene.
If there was anything his father’s family had loathed—other than him—it was a scene.
The late Earl of Harrowby had expired unexpectedly of an apoplexy, leaving behind his countess, his heir, and one daughter. He was also succeeded by his beloved mistress of over twenty years, and their son.
Delilah Knightly hadn’t wanted to attend; her son tried to persuade her.
“We have every right to be there,” he said forcefully. He might not be the heir or even have his father’s name, but Derek Knightly was the earl’s firstborn and beloved son.
“My grief will not be fodder for gossips, Derek, and if we attend it shall cause a massive scene. Besides, the Harrowby family will be upset. We shall mark his passing privately, just the two of us,” she said, patting his hand in a weak consolation. Delilah Knightly, exuberant darling of the London stage, had become a forlorn shell of her former self.
In grief, Knightly couldn’t find the words to explain his desperate need to hear the hymns sung in low mournful tones by the congregation, or to throw a handful of cool dirt on the coffin as they lowered it into the earth. The rituals would make it real, otherwise he’d always live with the faint expectation that his father might come round again.
He needed to say good-bye.
Most of all, Derek desperately wanted a bond to his father’s other life—including the haute ton where the earl had spent his days and some nights, the younger brother Derek never had adventures with and a younger sister he never teased—so it might not seem like the man was gone entirely and forever.
Whenever young Knightly had asked questions about the other family, the earl would offer sparse details: another son who dutifully learned his lessons and not much else, a sister fond of tea parties with her vast collection of dolls. There was the country estate in Kent that Knightly felt he knew if only by all the vivid stories told to him at night before bed. His father described the inner workings of Parliament over the breakfast table. But mostly the earl wanted to step aside from his proper role and public life to enjoy the woman he loved and his favored child—and forget the rest.
Knightly went to the funeral. Alone.
The doors had been closed. He opened them.
The service had begun. Knightly disrupted it. Hundreds of sadly bowed heads turned back to look at this intruder. He straightened his spine and dared them to oppose his presence with a fierce look from his piercing blue eyes.
He had every right to be here. He belonged here.
Derek caught the eye of the new earl, held it, and grew hot with fury. Daniel Peregrine Fincher, now Lord Harrowby, just sixteen years of age, was a mere two years younger than his bastard half brother who had dared to intrude in polite company. He stood, drawing himself up to his full height, a full six inches less than Derek, and declared in a loud, reedy voice:
“Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.”
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
A Writing Girl in Distress
DEAR ANNABELLE
Dear Annabelle,
I desperately need your advice …
Sincerely,
Lonely in London
The London Weekly
Miss Annabelle Swift’s Attic Bedroom
London, 1825
SOME THINGS ARE simply true: the earth rotates around the sun, Monday follows Sunday, and Miss Annabelle Swift loves Mr. Derek Knightly with a passion and purity that would be breathtaking were it not for one other simple truth—Mr. Derek Knightly pays no attention to Miss Annabelle Swift.
It was love at first sight exactly three years, six months, three weeks, and two days ago, upon Annabelle’s first foray into the offices of The London Weekly. She was the new advice columnist—the lucky girl who had won a contest and the position of Writing Girl number four. She was a shy, unassuming miss—still was, truth be told.
He was the dashing and wickedly handsome editor and owner of the paper. Absolutely still was, truth be told.
In those three years, six months, three weeks, and two days, Knightly seemed utterly unaware of Annabelle’s undying affection. She sighed every time he entered the room. Gazed longingly. Blushed furiously should he happen to speak to her. She displayed all the signs of love, and by all accounts, these did not register for him.
By all accounts, it seemed an unwritten law of nature that Mr. Derek Knightly didn’t spare a thought for Miss Annabelle Swift. At all. Ever.
And yet, she hoped.
Why did she love him?
To be fair, she did ask herself this from time to time.
Knightly was handsome, of course, breathtakingly and heart-stoppingly so. His hair was dark, like midnight, and he was in the habit of rakishly running his fingers through it, which made him seem faintly disreputable. His eyes were a piercing blue, and looked at the world with an intelligent, brutally honest gaze. His high, slanting cheekbones were like cliffs a girl might throw herself off in a fit of despair.
The man himself was single-minded, ruthless, and obsessed when it came to his newspaper business. He could turn on the charm, if he decided it was worth the bother. He was wealthy beyond imagination.
As an avid reader of romantic novels, Annabelle knew a hero when she saw one. The dark good looks. The power. The wealth. The intensity with which he might love a woman—her—if only h
e would.
But the real reason for her deep and abiding love had nothing to do with his wealth, power, appearance, or even the way he leaned against a table or the way he swaggered into a room. Though who knew the way a man leaned or swaggered could be so … inspiring?
Derek Knightly was a man who gave a young woman of no consequence a chance to be something. Something great. Something special. Something more. It went without saying that opportunities for women were not numerous, especially for ones with no connections, like Annabelle. If it weren’t for Knightly, she’d be a plain old Spinster Auntie or maybe married to Mr. Nathan Smythe who owned the bakery up the road.
Knightly gave her a chance when no one ever did. He believed in her when she didn’t even believe in herself. That was why she loved him.
So the years and weeks and days passed by and Annabelle waited for him to really notice her, even as the facts added up to the heartbreaking truth that he had a blind spot where she was concerned.
Or worse: perhaps he did notice and did not return her affection in the slightest.
A lesser girl might have given up long ago and married the first sensible person who asked. In all honesty, Annabelle had considered encouraging young Mr. Nathan Smythe of the bakery up the road. She at least could have enjoyed a lifetime supply of freshly baked pastries and warm bread.
But she had made her choice to wait for true love. And so she couldn’t marry Mr. Smythe and his baked goods as long as she stayed up late reading novels of grand passions, great adventures, and true love, above all. She could not settle for less. She could not marry Mr. Nathan Smythe or anyone else, other than Derek Knightly, because she had given her heart to Knightly three years, six months, three weeks, and two days ago.
And now she lay dying. Unloved. A spinster. A virgin.
Her cheeks burned. Was it mortification? Remorse? Or the fever?
She was laying ill in her brother’s home in Bloomsbury, London. Downstairs, her brother Thomas meekly hid in his library (it was a sad fact that Swifts were not known for backbone) while his wife, Blanche, shrieked at their children: Watson, Mason, and Fleur. None of them had come to inquire after her health, however. Watson had come to request her help with his sums, Mason asked where she had misplaced his Latin primer, and Fleur had woken Annabelle from a nap to borrow a hair ribbon.
Annabelle lay in her bed, dying, another victim of unrequited love. It was tragic, tragic! In her slim fingers she held a letter from Knightly, blotted with her tears.
Very well, she was not at death’s door, merely suffering a wretched head cold. She did have a letter from Knightly but it was hardly the stuff of a young woman’s dreams. It read:
Miss Swift—
Annabelle stopped there to scowl. Everyone addressed their letters to her as “Dear Annabelle,” which was the name of her advice column. Thus, she was the recipient of dozens—hundreds—of letters each week that all began with “Dear Annabelle.” To be cheeky and amusing, everyone else in the world had adopted this salutation. Tradesmen sent their bills to her addressed as such.
But not Mr. Knightly! Miss Swift indeed. The rest—the scant rest of it—was worse.
Miss Swift—
Your column is late. Please remedy this with all due haste.
D.K.
Annabelle possessed the gift of a prodigious imagination. (Or curse. Sometimes it felt like a curse.) But even she could not spin magic from this letter.
She was never late with her column either, because she knew all the people it would inconvenience: Knightly and the other editors, the printers, the deliverymen, the news agents, all the loyal readers of The London Weekly.
She loathed bothering people—ever since she’d been a mere thirteen years old and Blanche decreed to Thomas on their wedding day that “they could keep his orphaned sister so long as she wasn’t a nuisance.” Stricken with terror at the prospect of being left to the workhouse or the streets, Annabelle bent over backward to be helpful. She acted as governess to her brother’s children, assisted Cook with the meal preparation, could be counted on for a favor when anyone asked.
But she was ill! For the first time, she simply didn’t have the strength to be concerned with the trials and vexations of others. The exhaustion went bone deep. Perhaps deeper. Perhaps it had reached her soul.
There was a stack of letters on her writing desk across the room, all requesting her help.
Belinda from High Holburn wanted to know how one addressed a duke, should she ever be so lucky to meet one. Marcus wished to know how fast it took to travel from London to Gretna Green “for reasons he couldn’t specify.” Susie requested a complexion remedy, Nigel asked for advice on how to propose to one sister when he had already been courting the other for six months.
“Annabelle!” Blanche shrieked from the bottom of the stairs leading to her attic bedroom.
She shrunk down and pulled the covers over her head.
“Annabelle, Mason broke a glass, Watson pierced himself and requires a remedy, and Fleur needs her hair curled. Do come at once instead of lazing abed all day!”
“Yes, Blanche,” she said faintly.
Annabelle sneezed, and then tears stung at her eyes and she was in quite the mood for a good, well-deserved cry. But then there was that letter from Knightly. Miss Swift, indeed! And the problems of Belinda, Marcus, Susie and Nigel. And Mason, Watson and Fleur. All of which required her help.
What about me? Annabelle thought. The selfish question occurred to her, unbidden. Given her bedridden status, she could not escape it either. She could not dust, or sweep or rearrange her hair ribbons, or read a novel or any other such task she engaged in when she wished to avoid thinking about something unpleasant.
Stubbornly, the nagging question wouldn’t leave until it had an answer.
She mulled it over. What about me?
“What about me?” She tested the thought with a hoarse whisper.
She was a good person. A kind person. A generous, thoughtful, and helpful person. But here she was, ill and alone, forgotten by the world, dying of unrequited love, a virgin …
Well, maybe it was time for others to help Dear Annabelle with her problems!
“Hmmph,” she said to no one in particular.
The Swifts were not known for the force of their will, or their gumption. So when the feeling struck, she ran with it before the second-guessing could begin. Metaphorically, of course, given that she was bedridden with illness.
Annabelle dashed off the following column, for print in the most popular newspaper in town:
To the readers of The London Weekly,
For nearly four years now I have faithfully answered your inquiries on matters great and small. I have advised to the best of my abilities and with goodness in my heart.
Now I find myself in need of your help. For the past few years I have loved a man from afar, and I fear he has taken no notice of me at all. I know not how to attract his attention and affection. Dear readers, please advise!
Your humble servant,
Dear Annabelle
Before she could think twice about it, she sealed the letter and addressed it to:
Mr. Derek Knightly
c/o The London Weekly
57 Fleet Street
London, England
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
Lovelorn Female Vows to Catch a Rogue
THE MAN ABOUT TOWN
No man knows more about London than Mr. Derek Knightly, infamous proprietor of this newspaper’s rival publication. And no one in London knows one whit about him.
The London Times
Offices of The London Weekly
57 Fleet Street, London
DEREK KNIGHTLY SWORE by three truths. The first: Scandal equals sales. Guided by this principle, he used his inheritance to acquire a second-rate news rag, which he transformed into the most popular, influential newspaper in London, avidly read by both high- and lowborn alike.
The second: Drama was for the page
. Specifically the printed, stamp-taxed pages of The London Weekly, which were filled to the brim with salacious gossip from the ton, theater reviews, domestic and foreign intelligence, and the usual assortment of articles and advertisements. He himself did not partake in the aforementioned scandal or drama. There were days where he hardly existed beyond the pages he edited and published.
The third: Be beholden to no one. Whether business or pleasure, Knightly owned—he was not owned. Unlike other newspapers, The London Weekly was not paid for by Parliament or political parties. Nor did theaters pay for favorable reviews. He wasn’t above taking suppression fees for gossip, depending upon the rumors. He’d fought duels in defense of The Weekly’s contents. He’d already taken one bullet for his beloved newspaper and would do so again unblinkingly.
When it came to women—well, suffice it to say his heart belonged to the newspaper and he was intent that no woman should capture it.
These three truths had taken him from being the scandal-borne son of an earl and his actress-mistress to one of London’s most infamous, influential, and wealthiest men.
Half of everything he’d ever wanted.
For an infinitesimal second, Knight paused, hand on the polished brass doorknob. On the other side of the wooden door, his writers waited for their weekly meeting in which they compared and discussed the stories for the forthcoming issue. He thought about scandal, and sales, and other people’s drama. Because, given the news he’d just heard—a London Times reporter caught where he shouldn’t be—London was about to face the scandal of the year … one that threatened to decimate the entire newspaper industry, including The London Weekly.